Behind the Walls of Harar

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Semqua and I were each on a fourth mini bottle of red wine. It was the most enjoyable intercontinental flight I'd ever taken alone.

My drunkenness was heightened by lack of sleep; I'd purposely stayed awake the previous night both to take care of all those niggling last-minute things and to crash hard on the flight. But thanks to Virgin Atlantic's impressive entertainment system and my inability to both cradle my backpack and sleep soundly through my interminable Heathrow layover, I was still exhausted. I'd dozed a bit on the second leg, but upon waking for dinner, I chatted with Swedish-born Ethiopian and London university student Sem happily the rest of the BMI flight.

He taught me my first Amharic words—tadias (hello) and ameseganalehu (thanks)—then teased me when I tested out my new vocab at the airport bank counter at 4AM. With a hug and a kind offer to lodge me when I returned to Addis, my new friend bade me farewell while I headed off to Dire Dawa.

Ethiopian Air requires re-confirmation of all flights the day before departure. While many locals prefer face-to-face confirmation in the airline offices, I breezed through check-in at the domestic terminal thanks to the quick email I'd sent to the airline before leaving home.

Despite the second bag check at the gate, no one bothered to tell me my backpack was too large for the small plane's overhead compartments. The airline seemed pretty casual about the whole thing, flight attendants gently admonishing me with beautiful smiles and then simply tucking my pack into a corner. I noticed another passenger actually stood the entire flight so yeah…they weren't fussy.

Outside Dire Dawa's small airport, the taxi drivers fighting over me offered the option of taking a private car all the way to Harar rather than a minibus. Not ready to splurge so early in my trip, I insisted on getting to the minibus station, where I basically met a new man every few feet saying "Harar? Get on bus." They seemed to think I would lose my way in the 40 feet between the parking lot entrance and the minibuses.

I should have checked for seats on the apparently-full minibus, which took off immediately while mine sat for 30 minutes as I tried to ignore the ancient woman out the window with her pleading eyes and hand outstretched, and children reaching inside to sell tissues (locally referred to as "soft") and gum. Behind me, a man nonchalantly asked his plump seatmate if he'd purchased two seats because he was so fat. Making light of it, the Dutch tourist dryly said, "Thanks for the compliment!" Grinning, the Ethiopian replied, "It wasn't a compliment, it's a fact." Welcome to Africa!

The sweet young woman wedged in between me and driver smiled constantly but spoke no English. She'd caved and purchased gum from the hopeful children, immediately offering me a piece. Unable to make conversation, I found myself staring in awe at the rolling mountain scenery. I'd heard plenty about Ethiopia's beauty, but the green valleys were still an unexpected thrill.

The road between Dire Dawa and Harar is on good asphalt, but parts are still under construction. Slowed more by frequent stops to pick up new passengers along the way, a distance that could be covered in an hour took almost two. Shenanigans ensued when the driver informed us we had too many passengers to get through the customs check. What customs check? Where did the regional border begin? The line of minibuses pulled over, re-shuffled passengers until every minibus held no more than 12 passengers, and eventually drove on.

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Considered to be the fourth holiest city in Islam, Harar's walled old city contains perhaps the world's greatest concentration of mosques, devout women in headscarves, and while I was there, a joyful population preparing to celebrate Eid Al-Adha. Outside its graceful white walls and atmospheric alleyways, the hectic, densely-inhabited modern city feels like a giant open-air market.

Upon retrieving my backpack off the bus' roof, I gaped at the seething crowd until my kind seatmate grabbed my arm. As we walked through the station, the baggage handler yelled in Amharic until she pushed a tip into his waiting hand.

She pulled me into her friend Efraim's mototaxi. Tewodros Hotel was only a short walk away, but I had heavy bags and hundreds of eyes on me; in the brief period since touching down in Ethiopia, I'd already sensed the infamous "ferengi-hysteria" building.

The eager young receptionist at Tewodros spoke only halting English. Immediately after showing me my room, he gently recommended the resident guide's services. Disoriented, I told him I wasn't sure yet; uncomprehendingly, he asked me several more times.

The Harar Gate, the Haile Selassie-era addition to the five traditional gates into the old city, was close to the hotel. Within minutes of entering the wall, Efraim drove up on the wide main road with a big smile.

"Remember! I am here if you need anything! Do you still have my number? Write it down again!"

I wish I'd had the nerve to call and taken the opportunity to hang out with locals. But it's difficult enough for a woman to trust strange men without being the one initiating a meeting—what impression does that give?—and there was no guarantee he'd invite the girl from the bus.

We made small talk as a couple kids sidled up to the mototaxi. They acted like they knew Efraim, but soon it was apparent it was just my first case of "ferenjo, ferenjo, let me be your guide..."

Unable to shake them, I allowed the small boys—who claimed to be 16—to show me their city. Ambling vaguely along the cobbled dusty alleys, the kids served as nothing more than company; yet I depended on them to get me out. While my guidebook claimed it was impossible to really get lost as long as one followed the wall, I couldn't see the wall.

The boys led me to a traditional Harari home, now a guesthouse requiring a few birr to visit. A woman showed me around while a young man—perhaps her son—impassively watched TV in the main room, its high walls covered in the famous Harari pottery and baskets.

While I hadn't expressed interest in shopping, the boys took me to a small store with beautiful baskets on display. As I examined the work, the lead boy noted, "white people sure love baskets!" I'd been previously informed that Africans consider all non-blacks to be white, but was still startled. Me? White?

We strolled past the street tailors of Mekena Girgir into the odoriferous meat market, surrounded by optimistic birds of prey. A man struggling with a camel's bloody head insisted I take his photo for one birr. I didn't even want the picture but as the crowd grew around me, I didn't know what else to do but agree.

A merchant woman in a makeshift tent called out, "American? American!" Cackling, she called herself a Jamaican, revealing her mass of dreadlocks as proof. A refugee from Shashemene lost in Harar? I refused the plain injera she offered to share but took a few photos of her adorable child, after which she screamed out for money but didn't chase me down.

A car pulled up and the men inside asked where I was from. "New York," I said. Mysteriously, they then screamed "GROUND ZERO!" with huge grins, pumping their fists joyfully.

We left the market and exited through Showa Gate, surrounded by another market. The boys had repeatedly asked me to see the hyena man with them, but still exhausted from the journey, I repeatedly deflected. One tried to convince me the hyena man was his father, and their persistence won me over in the end. They ran off before we reached the hotel, begging me to say nothing to the live-in guide at Tewodros.

The hotel guide Guma approached immediately and informed me that it was illegal to see the hyenas with my unofficial child guides; whether or not that was true, I decided it was easier to go with him instead of some random kids. Almost an hour early, he knocked on my door and awoke me from a long-delayed deep slumber. We rescheduled for the following day.

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The directions that had seemed simple in the book suddenly grew complex at Harar's minibus station, where everyone was shouting and no one spoke English.

Timidly, I asked for "Dakata?"—the nearest village to the Valley of Marvels—but when I received no reaction I then asked for Jijiga, a larger eastern town. Understanding dawned, and I was pointed to a large empty spot where others were waiting. I had planned to spend a few hours hiking in the red desert valley geologically sculpted into gravity-defying formations, but the route there was becoming unclear.

When the converted RV that evidently served as a bus arrived, I again asked about Dakata, but without being able to explain my request further in English, I simply hoped the driver and my seatmates understood.

Guma had offered to accompany me. I hated myself for my suspicions, but I was uncomfortable at the idea of being alone with him and also didn't want to pay a guide for a trip that sounded straightforward.

The bus was jammed full. Passengers spread across the blanket-covered area between the driver and the door while others stood. As usual, the girls seated near me didn't speak English; even the simple name "Dakata" met blank looks. Handing 10 birr to the bus driver's assistant, I repeated "Dakata" again, getting a brusque nod in response. Watching him collect fares, I learned that sharp finger-snapping is the accepted way to get attention in Ethiopia.

The young guy next to me was much more interested in helping, and had already told me with limited English that I would be better off coming home with him. He had such a baby face and innocent smile it was hard to feel offended. He promised to let me know when we reached Dakata.

Uncomfortable with his stares and uninterested in continuing the conversation through gestures, I contented myself with people-watching. The passengers chatted loudly and the women, only about half of which wore scarves, were surprisingly flirtatious toward the men. We stopped frequently to pack more people on as other passengers got off to stretch. The drive was gorgeous, but knowing the Valley was supposedly just 7km past the bustling little town of Babile, I worried about unknowingly missing my stop.

My seat partner did finally speak up, and after a brief chat with the driver, the bus pulled over. No one budged while I climbed over the boy who wanted to spend the day with me, and found myself stranded in a random patch of dusty road lined with steel sheds.

I wandered over to the shacks, still hoping this was Dakata, and quickly discovered I was in a construction crew camp. Men, women and children drifted curiously towards me from behind a fence. One man hesitantly inquired, "Chinese?" When I affirmed, he barked "CHINESE THAT SIDE." I looked where he pointed, seeing similar sheds set further back on the other side of the road.

Knowing that Chinese are the principal workers on Ethiopian roads, I couldn't help wondering if this was the bus driver's idea of a joke. Or perhaps he genuinely thought he was just taking me home to my people.

Two young, friendly construction workers invited me into their shed. I would have preferred one of the families extend an invitation, but it was better than nothing. They spoke English better than anyone I'd met so far in Ethiopia, but there was still a great deal of silence. Sipping the glass-bottled Coke they offered, I wondered if I was horrible for finding this type of conversation exhausting...although I knew I would put up with the awkwardness to meet local women rather than always men.

They attempted to bring me around to the Chinese side to say hello, although their reasoning wasn't clear; it didn't matter anyway as no Chinese came out to greet us. Back on the Ethiopian side, the guys changed clothes and started talking about spending the day together, suggesting they come hiking with me in the Valley because of course I shouldn't go alone.

Frustrated as the day wore on and realizing no one at home knew of my desert whereabouts, I'd lost interest in hiking and wanted to move on to Babile. They kept telling me we could ride in a construction truck to the next town east, that it would be easier to catch a bus in a real town. Annoyed at the idea of backtracking, I obstinately stood on the road waiting for a westbound bus, while the guys sang soulfully along with a Christian rock mp3 playing on one's cell phone. After a long wait, a Babile-bound bus drove right past me and I finally agreed to take the construction truck.

Only a few minutes up the twisting road, we pulled over when a bus headed our way. I jumped out and was so irritated by the last few hours I couldn't be bothered to thank the construction workers for brokering my ride. I sprinted towards the waiting bus in relief.

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I climbed on the bus and was mortified to find only one seat available: the uncomfortable sparsely-padded metal platform by the driver, facing the staring busload of passengers. I could hear children whispering ferenjo, ferenjo, the Harari form of ferengi.

The bustling little town of Babile was a relief after my episode in the desert, but the feeling wouldn't last long. The town straddling the road between Jijiga and Harar was very small, but the camel market's location wasn't obvious. As I periodically stopped to ask shopkeepers for directions, a crowd grew behind me. I pretended not to notice until I started getting conflicting information; it turned out some people thought I'd asked for "cameras" not "camels."

In my short time in the country I'd been struck by how very thin everyone was. Of course, that was the stereotype—starving children in Ethiopia—but seeing it live was still surprising. Sure, they don't have lots of fatties in China either, but the impression is more about the population's general smallness; the tall Ethiopians in comparison appeared stretched. As I finally paused to acknowledge I didn't know where the market was, I turned to see my admiring public towering over me.

"Can I help?" asked the lanky boy. Eyes darting from him to his friends with eager grins, to the wide-eyed children wiping their noses, to the curious girls in school uniforms, to the old men amused by my discomfort, I stammered, "er, camel market?" Again he said "can I help you, please let me help you!"

I really would have preferred simply being pointed in the right direction, so I could walk there slowly and enjoy my people-watching. I politely but repeatedly told my expectant fans that I wanted to walk alone. But surrounded by a crowd of onlookers in a place that obviously doesn't see many ferenjos, I realized that a local "friend" could help keep them at a distance. I relented, and four of the boy's buddies immediately joined up.

They weren't annoying, and I didn't mind the help. The market was not along the main road, so the vague advice to head left or right before hadn't helped much, and at almost noon the market was well under way. I couldn't simply follow the stream of animals because there wasn't one any longer. We walked and chatted along a dirt path parallel to the main road until we caught up with merchants. From a short distance away, a hill to the left contained a teeming crowd of people and animals.

The market also featured farm creatures like goats and oxen, but the camels of varying sizes were the most impressive. I marveled at the sight of them, bubbling at the mouth, preparing to spit; nuzzling each other sleepily, and tugging violently away from their owners.

But as always, I was the star attraction. The mixed crowd I'd drawn on the main road was nothing compared to the market men. There were very few women present, and the stares detracted slightly from my fascination with the market. I wanted to see sales in action, as I'd done in animal markets elsewhere: locals bargaining and examining the wares. But all action stopped as I approached—especially any time I raised my camera—and I began wondering if I should be more entertaining.

I had miscalculated the amount of help my teenaged "guides" would supply. As the mob around me grew, they did nothing but grin wider. When one ogling man drawled, "so will you be providing us with income today?" I felt a disgust that had nothing to do with camel drool. It was time to leave.

Unsurprisingly, as I headed to the roadside to wait for the bus, the main kid asked me if I would be treating them all to a meal for their services. Pretending not to understand, I brightly said I was ready to head back to Harar now. More insistently, he then said I should give them something for all their help. I sweetly reminded him I hadn't asked for his services, and even turned him down several times. This time he did not follow me.

My dramatic stomp-off was slightly diminished by the ensuing long wait for the bus. I wasn't even sure if I was looking for a bus straight to Harar or if any random bus heading west would drop me off.

One enterprising minibus driver offered me a private drive for the relative bargain price of 70 birr—this was after I'd already entered, thinking it was a regular bus. This was ten times the going bus fare (albeit only $8) and I had no real way of preventing him from picking up other passengers. I shoved hard out the door, knocking back some groupies in my haste to exit. A car pulled up and the driver asked where I wanted to go. When I said I was waiting for the bus, he dismissively said, "oh...you're poor." Flushed, unsure if this was sarcasm, I turned away in embarrassment. Another man tried to tell me there were no buses until the following day. It was beginning to seem possible.

Another converted camper finally arrived, but as Babile was just a stop along the route, I once again found myself taking the only remaining spot up front—facing my gawkers. This time there was no cushion on the platform, only a thin blanket.

The scenery in this region was stunning; as beautiful on this road as the one from Dire Dawa. We rolled past small traditional communities and pastoralists, beautiful green hills glistening under the sunny skies. The experience had been worthwhile, but a tough one to endure alone. Intimidating and confusing, and all just to see a few camels.

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I don't think Guma owned a watch because the previous night he'd tried to pick me up for the hyenas almost an hour early. I'd been too exhausted from the long travel day to go then, but tonight when he showed up 30 minutes early I was ready.

Harar has a weird relationship with hyenas. The tradition of feeding raw meat daily to hyenas, which by most sources dates back only to the 1950s, may have transformed into its present version from a yearly ceremony begun centuries ago during a famine. Hararis fed the starving hyenas porridge to prevent them from attacking humans, and continued to set out a bowl of porridge yearly to symbolize this pact. The amount of porridge left in the bowl later came to represent the success or failure of the year's crops. Sort of an Ethiopian Groundhog Day.

We strolled across the football field behind Tewodros Hotel, taking in the pleasant Harar evening. Guma was the first person I'd met in Ethiopia who spoke English fluently, although there were still misunderstandings. He agreed that directions to Babile's camel market were not clear in guidebooks, but also insisted that it was simple to follow the stream of animals from the main road, yet the stream hadn't existed.

As relieved as I was to find an English-speaker, I wasn't comfortable with the way he looked at me, or his insistence that we should have spent the day together to avoid some vague peril. Was he trying to assert his indispensability, or was it something more salacious? He said I should never have planned to hike in the Valley of Marvels alone because it was dangerous. He said the bus driver dropped me off in the construction camp instead of Dakata because Dakata was also dangerous. It seemed odd that none of this was mentioned in my guidebook. Walking along the dark path outside the old city's walls, I grew uncomfortable with his staring. Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at the feeding site and I gladly ended the conversation for a while.

The site was at Fallana Gate, with a younger hyena man rather than long-established Yusef Pepe. This hyena man almost seemed bored, and did not attempt to create any mysterious atmosphere in his relationship with the hyenas. They seemed like docile dogs being fed by their owner.

Even so, there was something intriguing about the feeding. The furry hyenas were surprisingly cute as they nosed curiously at the man's basket of food. But when a car pulled up with a tour group, their fangs glinted in the headlights, snapping at strips of raw meat. The hyena man alternately fed them from his fingers and off the end of a metal stick. The tour guides, familiar with the procedure, also took a turn feeding the hyenas and invited their guests to join in; I was too chicken.

The feeding lasted perhaps no more than 20 minutes, during which the flashes from various cameras never ceased. I paid Guma the agreed-upon 50 birr and he gave a portion to the hyena man. Until seeing the small crowd at the feeding, I would have sworn I was the only tourist in Harar. Afterwards, I still wasn't sure where the others I'd seen were hiding.

We walked back through the brightly-lit old city. At night, Harar was full of activity, with stores still open and street stands selling food. I wished I had a travel partner to visit with. Guma wasn't an acceptable substitute, as his overly-familiar behavior turned me off. He wasn't even that helpful in his capacity as an officially-licensed guide because of a collision with another pedestrian. He was so distracted soliciting sympathy for the small cut on his forehead that he couldn't help me negotiate for photos.

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I had finally accepted that I needed a guide to really appreciate the old city, but wanted some time alone on my last morning in Harar. I arranged with Guma to meet at 8AM and left the hotel to explore at 6:30.

Harar struck me as a city-sized open-air market, and even at this early hour the streets were buzzing with activity. Despite the stares and whispers of "ferenjo! ferenjo!", I loved seeing real markets, not crafts-oriented affairs that targeted tourists. I watched the Hararis bargain over jugs of oil, children's clothing, and various car parts, and they watched me.

Despite the business of buying, selling and negotiating, people still found the time to stare, point and outright ask me for money. Only one woman struck me as unconditionally friendly, a bread seller with a beautiful smile. She didn't speak English, but appreciated my attempts at Amharic and loved meeting someone Chinese. I was definitely getting the feeling that was a rare occurrence in Ethiopia, but even with this excuse the Hararis' behavior was wearing me down.

Guma and I agreed on 110 birr for a three-hour tour that expanded to six. The price was a bit lower than usual, but I was currently the only tourist in Tewodros. As soon as we joined up, I was no longer hassled for money and met purely friendly interest everywhere. We saw the sweet bread seller again and she happily posed for a picture with her friend.

On the downside, Guma was a bit lecherous—my earlier suspicions had been correct. Even as a friendly, hospitable people, Ethiopians generally retain a sense of propriety around the opposite sex, and Guma's constant attempts to rub my shoulders and grab my hand were unappreciated. I pulled away in shock at every touch but he was hardly discouraged. With a long leering look, he softly suggested we travel to Dire Dawa together. Irritably, I snapped, "why would I want to do that?" Unchastened, he simply shrugged and grinned.

We came across a coffee wholesaler, and while I'm not normally a coffee drinker myself, I wanted to buy some as souvenirs. Ethiopian coffee is world-renowned, and Harar apparently produces the best in the country. According to Guma, there were three companies in Harar and I was buying from the only one that did not sell to Starbucks.

On my first day, the boys guiding me had asked me repeatedly to see "Rambo's" house and now I knew they meant Arthur Rimbaud's house. Claims that the young French poet had lived here while in Harar were unproven, but the large, graceful house was designated a landmark nevertheless. The house was now a museum with a beautiful collection of Rimbaud's own black-and-white photos of the city dominating the ground floor. For some reason Guma kept pushing me to view the photos quickly and get out before the guard noticed, when the entrance fee was only 5 birr anyway.

Water tanks were distributed throughout the old city, which didn't have running water, and the kids fetching water at a tank screamed with joy when they saw my camera. The yellow plastic oil jugs were saved for collecting water, and I began associating the sight of them with Harar. Docile donkeys pulled loaded carts through the cobbled streets. An elderly, garrulous man made sandals from used tires, apparently quite popular throughout the town. According to Guma, the cobbler adored me, but of course I didn't know what he was really saying.

In a butcher shop I was immediately asked for a photo fee, although I hadn't originally intended to take a photo. Once promised a couple birr, the butcher responded with model-quality poses. A trio of teenaged girls with headscarves and glitter lipstick approached us and for reasons unknown asked Guma if they could kiss me. Mystified, I agreed, and they marveled at the smoothness of my cheek.

I noticed garbage spread thickly in the street. Guma told me the old city wasn't equipped for disposal and drainage, so the streets were simply cleaned out twice a week. He also mentioned that schools in Ethiopia are not free, not even kindergarten, which helped explain why I saw so many kids wandering around on a Tuesday morning. Apparently health care was not free either, which seemed ridiculous in a country so impoverished.

Even more interesting than the old city's streets was exiting the wall on the far side and seeing the rural people gathered in and around tents on the dusty hill. They came to Harar to sell supplies like firewood, peanuts and sugarcane. Because it looked like a camp, I was surprised when Guma said they came in daily. It looked pretty rough.

We headed to one of the tarpaulin shacks to get breakfast. Sitting on plastic chairs at a timeworn wooden table, we ordered coffee, fried dough balls, sambusas and a sizzling pan of fuul. Tasty, filling, and a mere 8 birr for the both of us—of course Guma expected me to cover him but at that price I couldn't take offense.

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At Mermaid Ice Cream we enjoyed Ethiopian-style juice. The clientele was entirely male, so I might have been uncomfortable without Guma. The juice was fruit puree with plenty of sugar, already delicious but improved exponentially with the lime wedges served with it. Guma's pineapple juice and my papaya juice came to just 8 birr.

Winding through the narrow alleys, we arrived at a small, gleaming white-and-teal shrine to find the Guma's imam friend had stepped out. Her young granddaughters dutifully completing their household chores reported that she hadn't been feeling well and had gone to the hospital with her daughter.

Guma didn't officially introduce us by name, but encouraged the younger one to pose for some photos. Cheerfully, she arranged herself in front of the family's stunning baskets, balancing them on her head, stacking several in her arms, or simply smiling proudly before the full display.

The girls offered me coffee, and while we waited for them to gather some sticks for firewood, we visited the small shrine. According to Guma, it was unusual to live on the same property as a shrine. I rapidly realized that despite his excellent English, he didn't always understand me; lines of questioning on the rarity of female imams in the Muslim world, their acceptance among mixed congregations and their frequency within Harar specifically went nowhere. It didn't help much that he wasn't Muslim himself, and held no opinions about these issues.

The imam returned on the arm of her daughter; fat, slow-moving, with deep crinkles at her smiling eyes, I found myself glowing in the presence of this woman who was revered in the religious community, yet also struck me as simply Grandma.

No one in this household spoke more than a few words of English, so I simply sat back and soaked it in. The daughter slowly roasted the green coffee beans while her husband gave a friendly grin every time our eyes met. A housekeeper napped on the porch. He pulled the blanket off his face, blinking at the Asian stranger, lazily answering the imam's questions while I wondered how this particular employer-employee relationship worked. A woman in charge of preparing the Eid Al-Adha festivities stopped by to discuss the number of animals to be slaughtered in order to feed the vast homeless population.

The first cup of coffee was made from roasted shells. It was a clear light brown, looking more like tea but smelling of coffee. Through Guma, the imam and I chatted about Ethiopia, and my plans while here. The pretty granddaughter ground the roasted beans with a mortar and pestle, smiling shyly. The imam brought out a shisha, which she obviously thoroughly enjoyed, transporting me back to the Middle East with the first puff. Thoughtfully, the imam told me she never knew Chinese people were so beautiful. No doubt her only previous experiences were with male construction workers. I trotted out my few words of Arabic to make her laugh, and she tried out a couple words of English.

A misunderstanding occurred when a chat seller stopped by, and Guma said I should buy some of the narcotic plant. Confusedly, I said I didn't want any. He said, "it's not for you, it's for everyone," which suddenly made me feel like I was being used for being "rich." Huffily, I said that I was happy to donate to the shrine, but did not want to buy leaves that I wouldn't be using. Now I appreciated that no one spoke English, as my argument with Guma was not understood. I have no idea how Guma translated any of this, but the family was relieved when I relaxed, and even encouraged me to try the chat. With complete lack of technique, I macerated the leaves into small bits instead of creating a chewy ball inside my cheek, and never felt any of the stimulant's effects.

The rest of the morning passed pleasantly. The traditional coffee ceremony generally included 3 cups, not including the first one brewed from shells. I bought three lovely, dust-coated ancient baskets for ridiculously low price of $12 total, so much more charming because they were actually made by the imam's grandmother. I was unclear whether I was taking away family heirlooms, or baskets used on a regular basis around the home, or if every private home operated as a shop. Guma, as usual, didn't understand the questions.

Meanwhile Guma, looking affected by all the chat and shisha smoke, had been gazing at me for too long with half-closed eyes. I felt it was time to break free.

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Bank employees walk unbearably slowly. The cashier did her job in slow motion: stamping, shuffling papers, and of course, moseying down to the tellers to pick up more forms. My frustration was exacerbated by the queue system, in which customers received a metal token rather than numbers torn from a sequential paper tape. Thus, the electronic sign indicating the next in line was completely random. Restlessly, I watched the sign tick 52-93-4-25.

There are few things more nerve-wracking than being in a hurry in Africa.

I had two things to accomplish before returning to Dire Dawa for my flight: check email to see if Sem had a place for me to stay, and change money. Ethiopia is low on ATMs, and the ones that actually work only take VISA cards, so I'd been told to bring plenty of traveler's checks. However, I'd tried Dashen Bank the previous day and was told they were "impossible" to change, leaving me a little desperate at the Commercial Bank of Ethiopia today.

I decided to check email first because it was 1:30 and the bank took its standard 2-hour lunch break at noon. For some reason it hadn't occurred to me other businesses took this lunch break as well. But by 2pm, the internet café was still closed, and I had to rush off to the bank.

However, at the bank I was first gently challenged on my signature not quite matching the one on my checks—an inevitable problem due to my terrible handwriting—and then told it would take so long I should go back to my hotel and wait. I hurriedly said I would go to the internet café and pick up my money later.

Walking back to the internet café, I was suddenly accosted by two street kids. Each grabbing an arm, they proceeded to dig in with their little nails and scream "CHINESE GIVE MONEY CHINESE GIVE MONEY" until I thought I'd lose my mind. The smallest child was easier to push off, but the older one required more force. To my horror, I yanked my arm so hard it whacked the kid in the face. I managed to get online long enough to learn that Sem was taking a short trip out of Addis so I'd be on my own, and then shamefacedly walked on the opposite side of the street to avoid confronting the kids again.

Back at the Commercial Bank, the teller had been waiting for my signature—in front of locals subtly craning their necks to see that I'd changed the equivalent of a month's salary to fund my next week of vacation. Once accomplished, the wait for the cashier began.

Pockets stuffed with birr, I ran back to the hotel in a panic over the fact that it was 3:00, the bus to Dire Dawa took an hour and a half and my flight was at 5:20. Practically in tears, I grabbed my luggage and begged the guys hanging out at reception if there was any possible way to pay a taxi to take me all the way to the airport, since I'd gotten the same offer in Dire Dawa. It turned out there was no amount I could pay anyone to take me there.

The hotel's official taxi driver showed up to drive me to the bus station—a short walk away but with my additional bag of souvenirs and 2-liter bottle of water, it was helpful. I squeezed onto the last seat on a minibus, which left immediately. Unfortunately, it was now almost 3:30.

I knew from experience the bus ride could be up to 2 hours including stops. I was in full-on panic mode...I was on the last flight of the day to Addis, and without getting to Addis I couldn't get to Gondar and without getting to Gondar I couldn't start the TESFA trek. The dominos in my head wobbled.

Although the bus was full, the driver optimistically pulled over to ask every person we passed where they were going. My best guess was that they would say, "Dire Dawa," and the assistant would cheerfully say "sorry, we're full!" which was pretty damn obvious. Lather, rinse, repeat. We were also stopped constantly for "customs checks," which consisted of uniformed men looking under our seats but not asking to see our passports. Throughout the ride, the bus assistant sat behind me loudly chewing, alternating between chat leaves and peanuts and flicking the detritus at my shoulder. This did not improve my mood.

On the plus side, the road between Harar and Dire Dawa is gorgeous, almost indescribably so. The right side of the bus—left side when coming from Dire Dawa—was significantly better than the other way around, which was already quite beautiful. We passed craggy valleys and terraced fields, blanket-wrapped women lugging produce up the hills on foot and children herding sheep along the road.

I couldn't stand waiting until we got to the bus station, and the minute we got within Dire Dawa limits I jumped in a waiting mototaxi that took me to the airport for 20 birr. At an airport the size of my office lobby, I was security-checked at the door, checked in about 20 feet away by a smiling man who said "I think you are very late today!", told to hand my boarding pass to a man standing THREE feet from the counter, then rechecked for security another 15 feet away. My panic only subsided when I realized the plane, sitting right in front of us, wasn't moving any time soon.

After all the stress of the day, I confirmed there's just no point in being in a hurry in Africa.