Escape from devil land
Six a.m. we're sitting in a bus that wouldn't make it through the compulsary yearly car-check in the Netherlands in 25 years, even with an enormous amount of bribes. The bicycles are on the roof, tightly secured by Peter in order to survive the bumpy road back to Gonder. There is not only a driver on board, but also a mechanic and a 25 and 50 litres oilbarrel standing in the path. Every thirty kilometres the engine oil needs to be filled up, which leads us to think that it rides one on one, on motoroil that is. With an average speed of about twenty kilometres per hour the journey to Gonder seems to take forever.
After more then five-and-a-half hours we're in the centre of Gonder, where some people get off. The bus just doesn't make it to the busstation. Oil leaks on the road and smoke slowly darkens the inside of the bus. Luckily we are allowed to get off and take the bicycles off the roof ourselves. We're being helped again, unasked for and despite my objections. When we load the panniers on the bicycles a crowd of twenty men quickly assembles around us, one or two demanding money for carrying a pannier a single metre which we didn't ask for anyway. Although it is Monday, nobody is doing anything, and there is such a lot of work to be done in this country.
In our trusted Belegez Pension we meet two French hikers, Alex and Sonia, who share their experiences with us. It can always be worse, so we hear. They are avid hikers and are walking from South-Africa to Jerusalem. En route from the Kenian border to Gonder they have been scolded, called names, hit with stones and stalked. They literally had to fight a way through rowdy crowds wanting to attack and robb them. Reason: they are white. Alex cracked two sticks on black heads and broke his pink whilst catching a stone meant for Sonia's head. Only thirteen days later in Addis Abeba he could go to a doctor. Sonia also fought: a man uttered the same very rude abuse thrice, then she was fed up and hit him with her fists on his head as hard as she could. Despite the misery they persisted in walking the entire route and they never hitchhiked. Very brave, but also very dangerous. They strongly advise us to take a plane to Kenya if our lives are dear to us.
During the three days we spend in Gonder we do everything to arrange a fast, cheap and safe passage to Kenya. We are not very successful and end up with a busticket to the next bigger town: Bahir Dar. In the meantime we are in the midst of a negative information flow: the Ethiopean government has urgently asked the west for help because, so they say, sixteen million Ethiopeans are about to die of hunger. Many charity organisations hurried to the country to survey the situation. They didn't manage to find any hungry Ethiopeans. At the same time there turns out to be sufficient rainfall on the fertile Ethiopean soil to garantee a good harvest. It is the question now whether or not the government is playing a dirty game in order to get food, materials and money in a very cheap way. The president of the country turns out to be one of the biggest landowners in Texas, USA, as well as the owner of a large mobile phone company. We ask ourselves whether the well-meant help is effective for a people that for decades now is used to hold out their hands and to never accept the responsability for their own living conditions. Looking at our experiences with the adults and children in this country it seems to be the moment to teach people to solve their own problems instead of holding out their hands to the white people.
Six a.m. we're sitting at the busstation in Gonder, surrounded by bags and bicycles. Fascinated we look at an old Landrover that's about to be loaded with a very special freight. Four men lift a wooden stretcher onto the roof, on which a dead person is laying, covered in cloth. Once on the roof the entire freight is fastened with ropes. The deceased starts his last journey.
This time the bus trip has no hickups and we reach Bahir Dar in one piece. During the trip we even manage to secretly open a window, a mortal sin in this country. It is astonishing that people rather sit in the dusky odour of each other's sweat and breath than having some fresh air. During an evening walk past Lake Tana's pelicans we decide to visit the Ghion Hotel for a nightcap. To our amazement we meet Emy, Aran and the other people from the overlandtruck again. They drove the entire northern historical circuit, visited Axum and Lalibela and haven't been bothered by the locals a lot. We tell about our broken off journey, our ghastly experiences and are overcome with happiness when Paul invites us for a safe journey to Kenya on the truck.
The next morning we tie our bicycles safely on the cabin's roof, with two blankets between them to avoid any damage.
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The truck is somewhat faster than a bus, but it doesn't really make any speed. We regularly jolt off the benches and have to hold on really tight. The view is magnificent from our high outlook and for the first time in this country we feel safe. The landscape becomes moister and greener. There is absolutely no drought, so there needn't be any hunger.
At walking pace we descend into the Blue Nile Gorge, the steep gravel road makes driving any faster impossible. At the other side we make camp for the night, prepare food and eat together and sleep in the tents that are part of the truck's gear.
The second day we drive through a fascinating beautiful green landscape to the capital Addis Abeba. At least ninety percent of the town consists of slum dwellings. When we drive from the hills into the town we see one mass of corrugated iron roofs shimmer in the sun. In between is the centre where a couple of high rise buildings form a sharp contrast with its surroundings. In Hotel Bel Air, Simon and Leah, who are cycling from England to South-Africa, join the crew. They are also fleeing the country because of the aggression and rudeness of the people. Leah was even whipped off her bicycle by children that ran along.
The next morning a stranded German cyclist, who calls himself BumBum, also turns out to ride along to Kenya. He broke his arm in two places thanks to some stone throwing children. Unfortunately he turns out to be the prototype of the unsympathetic German: talks a lot, never listens, knows everything better and criticises everything and everybody. Soon everybody ignores him.
This evening we arrive in the dark in Yabalo, where Geoff van de Merwe, the South-African on the motorcycle, is waiting for us. He is going to accompany the truck on his motorcycle to Nairobi, for safety reasons. In the hotel annex campsite people are traditionally unfriendly and not willing to provide any service. Ten minutes after our arrival the bar is closed, the rooms and campsite are very expensive and without any ammenities to speak of. We decide to pitch the tents next to the truck, on the adjoining terrain of the petrol station.
The next morning the hotel owner demands money because we camped besides his hotel. We are furious and refuse to pay. Very soon dozens of onlookers assemble around the truck, amongst which a guard carrying a Kalashnikov. The situation threatens to escalate when Paul ignites the truck. The onlookers stand in front of the truck to prevent it from leaving and the Kalashnikov is aimed at the truck. To prevent further escalation we pay and drive off, shouting and calling names.
The road to Moyale is bad but leads through an exquisite tropical landscape with the most beautiful and various shades of green we've ever seen. Today we regularly see wild animals: baboons, guinea fowl, dikdiks, hornbills, weaverbirds, starlings and eagles.
The last two hundred kilometres to the border the road is asphalted for a large part and passes many villages. The people wave enthousiastically when we drive by; in the truck everything is different than on the bicycle. We'd almost start to like the Ethiopeans. At the Kenyan border we realise that for the first time this journey we are happy, overjoyed even, to leave a country. No sadness this time, only bitter memories. Unfortunately...
