The next day, I woke up early. There was absolutely no traffic, so I was forced to take a bus to the border. Standing next to me was a middle-aged man in brown leather jacket and checked cap. There was something about him that distinguished himself from the rest of people on the bus. His face was sharply cut, his eyebrows were thick, and his eyes were deep. He stood there with one hand holding on the metal and another in the trousers’ pocket. I couldn’t help but imagining him puffing on a pipe, just like any Don in a Hollywood mafia movie.

- Where are you going, Sir?

- To visit my mines in Yabello. – His English was perfect.

- Mines?

- Yes, I’m a gem trader.

And just like that, I had the most interesting conversation about finding and trading gems. Mining had always been a myth to me, a lucrative myth that through history has caused millions of people to leave their homes to dig into the ground and never go come back. Suddenly, I desperately wanted to have the first hand experience of it.

- Can I find a job at one of your mines?

- Haha young lady, look at your hands. Can you even hold a hoe?

- Of course I can. Pay me less if you think I’m not working as hard as the others, but pay me more when I find something.

- This is the dry season, we don’t have water to run the mines so you’ll have to wait. Why is that you want to work in a mine? You don’t have money?

- You can say so.

- I have to get off here. Email me your address once you have one. I’ll send you something.

Later I found out that he paid for my bus ticket. He gave me his business card, but I have never emailed him. Maybe I should, just to say thank you eh

The bus driver and conductor took me under their wings and bought me breakfast/lunch. I arrived at the border town Moyale in the afternoon. The whole town centers around a dusty main road that hosts a busy market, a petrol station, a church and a mosque. I always love border towns. They are never modernized enough, yet they are never backward. They are always exotic, the perfect playground for the infusion of two different races, two different cultures, two different languages, two different cuisines. Border towns are probably the only place ever truly borderless, as the differences are embraced, rather than to be rejected. And nothing beats the feeling when you first see the sign: “Welcome to [country name]”.

The only time I don’t like border towns is when I have to change money here. I tried to find to find an Internet cafe just to see how much money I’d be willing to lose, but nothing worked. I approached a man in black suit hopefully he’d know the rate.

- You need to change money? Come, I’ll take you to Kenya bank.

- On the other side of the border? Oh, I can’t buy Kenya’s visa now ‘cos I don’t have money.

- Don’t worry about it.

As I jumped in his car, I realized that it was a Kenya’s government car. This man was the governor-to-be of Kenya’s Moyale. As long as I was with him, nobody asked for my passport.

The rate was ridiculously bad, and after buying $50 for the visa, I had only 400 Ksh left (~$4). He put me in a guesthouse, a 4m2 room with a single bed and a window to the gloomy corridor. The toilet is outside, and there was no water for washing. But “it’s safe, clean, and only 200Tsh/night”. He paid for it.

Kenya’s Moyale is one hell of difference from Ethiopia’s Moyale. People there called me “mzungu” instead of “faranji”, but nobody gave me higher price just because I looked different. Kenyans speak English better, and they hassle you less. The dry sand, the white tents, the girls in black veils and the mosque made me feel as if I was back in the desert somewhere in Egypt. I made friends with a local family and they sent their teenage daughter to show me around.

There was nothing to see in Moyale. I knew it was time to leave, but I didn’t know how. Taking bus was out of question, but I was reluctant to hitchhike. The road from Moyale to Isiolo is considered one of the most dangerous roads in Africa. Most vehicles that go through it have armed escorts. My best friend Asher, a crazy traveler who has been to this area, sent me a message: “Ha, from Addis to Moyale is easy. Now try to find your way to Isiolo. If you hitchhike, I’d kill you.”

I ran into a Chinese guy called Roger and his colleague. They invited me to join their promotion in Ethiopia the next day. For the sake of procrastination, I agreed. The next morning, as I went to their hotel to wait for them, I struck up a conversation with a man sitting in front of his laptop. It turned out that he was also going to Isiolo.

- How are you gonna get there?

- A private car.

- When?

- In about 1 hour.

So I ran back to my guest house, quickly packed my stuff, called Roger to cancel and joined the man. His private car was actually a jeep, and he wasn’t going alone. There were few other buff men in the crew. I was seated on the back of the jeep which was sparsely covered with thick camouflage cloth. At first, I was happy. I’ve always liked sitting on the back of pick-up trucks with fresh air and natural wind on my face. But I soon realized that traveling on a tarmac road and traveling through the desert aren’t the same.

I couldn’t count how many times my head banged against the metal hanging cross jeep. The only thing I could do was to hold tightly to the pole, as there was a real threat that I could be thrown out of the jeep any minute. The sun was hot. The wind was strong. The sand was ubiquitous. My lips parched, my eyes slit, my face covered in dust. I couldn’t breathe. Looking to my left, I saw another jeep about 100m from where I was. Suddenly I realized that there wasn’t any road at all. We were just following scattering trails cross the desert.

Once in a while, I saw the resemblance of a forest, but the trees looked like they were straight out of the Old Forest of The Lord of the Rings, created to trick the profane travelers who dared to enter the haunted land. They were big like oak trees, each with hundreds of branches spreading out like an umbrella. They didn’t have any leaves, but the bark was whimsically colorful: green, blue, yellow. I stared at them like a stoned junkie staring at Windows Media Player, until the sound of a bang and a dent on my head brought me back to reality. I knew that I was extremely lucky to get a ride from town. Had I hitchhiked in this land, if I didn’t get kidnapped and killed by bandits, I’d probably get lost and die.

The jeep stopped by Marsabit, a desolate desert town half way between Moyale and Isiolo. I barely had time to breathe and picked the dust out of my nose when the jeep started moving again. We were running out of time. The road was long and bumpy.

I arrived in Isiolo at midnight with only 200Tsh in my pocket, as I already spent 200Tsh on water and some food. The jeep stopped at a hotel but I couldn’t afford it for nuts, so I walked around hoping to find a cheaper option. I found a guesthouse for 600Tsh. I told the owner that he didn’t have to give me a room, that he could just leave me sleep on the couch for 200Tsh. I must have looked like a zombie at that time, as troad had completely destroyed me. He told me that I looked like I needed some rest, and he let me stay in a room for all what I had left.

So I went to bed. I had no money left but I felt better than ever. I just travelled through one of the worst roads in Africa, safe and sound. Now there was nothing standing between me and Nairobi. I had no doubt that I’d reach Nairobi before Sep 19 – my 21st birthday.

Tags: Border Crossing, Chip, Chipro, Ethiopia, Gem, Hitch-hiking, Isiolo, Kenya, Mining, Moyale, People, travel, Travel and Write, Travel Diary

I woke up the next day, fresh and happy. At that time, I was sure that the decision to hit the road was the right one. If I had stayed in Addis, I would just hang around the places I usually went to. Lot of comfort, no risk but also no excitement. Now I had the whole new road, 487km, in front of me to explore.

I had neither a map nor a guide book at that time. From Mergia, I knew that I would have to get to Dilla, then Haggae Mariam, then Yabelo and then Moyale. Negat Children’s Home is very close to the main road down South. Mergia walked me there, then we bit goodbye.

- See you around! – Yeah, around the world.

The first car that picked me up dropped me at the bus station. He never understood the meaning of hitchhiking. I hopped on like 3 different cars: a car, a pickup truck and a truck; each took me around 20km further. The road was winding and deceiving. After 4 hours, I thought that I must have traveled at least 150km. But the truck driver who dropped me at Dilla warned me:

- Are you sure you want to do that? Still 400km to go.

- What? How far is it from Awassa here?

- 90km.

Oh I hate it! With this speed, it’d take me at least 2 more days to reach Moyale.

The further south I went, the less traffic there was. Only a car every 10 minutes. Most of them traveled very short distance. I had to walk for a long time, and attracted a lot of unsolicited attention. Normally I would try to walk out of town to get rid of it, but at that time I was too tired to care. I put my backpacks down. Two dozens of people, both young and old, gathered around, stared at me. I took out my phone and played Ray Charles’ music loud. Soon I got carried away by the music. I closed my eyes, started whistling and dancing. Some whistled back. Some sang along. Some laughed. When I opened my eyes, the audience had grown to at least 50 people. I burst into laughing. And they all laughed. It was quite a scene. I must have been the first street entertainer they had ever seen in their entire lives in this boring village.

I got on another truck and immediately fell asleep. I woke up just to realize that the truck had come to stop. The engine broke down and the drivers were trying to fix it. There was absolutely no traffic on the road. I fell back into sleep and woke up again. The truck was still stalling and there was still no hope of fixing it anytime soon. So I just sat in the middle of the road patiently waiting for a car to run me over and end all my miseries. Finally a pick-up truck emerged from dust. It was transporting furniture with metal legs shooting up like giant teeth. I crouched trying to avoid being thrust through by one of them.

The truck dropped me outside of a small town 27km away from Haggae Mariam. It was around 4pm. I planned to hitchhike to Haggae Mariam, but as I was walking through that small town, few dozens of people surrounded me. They forcefully put me on a bus. I had no idea what they told the bus conductor that he refused to accept my payment.

I arrived in Haggae Mariam at dust and had no other choice but to stay here for the night. I walked in the only stayable-looking hotel in town, Haggae Mariam Hotel. It was way over my budget. I explained my situation to Tina – the beautiful receptionist. She was at the same age as me, and was completely shocked to hear my story.

- Stay here, pay as much as you could, and we’ll chip in the rest.  – spoke she on behalf of the staff at the hotel.

But I couldn’t let them do that. I knew they got paid next to nothing, and I’d kill myself if I took their money. Luckily, a gentleman who was staying at the hotel overheard the story and offered to pay for the rest.

After having my accommodation fixed, I began another mission impossible. I would have to buy Kenyan visa at the border in dollars, but all I had was Ethiopian birr. Something strange about Ethiopia, you can never buy dollars anywhere outside Addis Ababa. The banks only buy dollars. They don’t sell. A man there told me that he would take me to a place where I could buy dollars. I agreed to go with him after dinner time. But as soon as I walked by the reception, Tina grabbed me:

- Did that man do anything do you?

- No, he told me he’d take me to a place where I could get dollars.

- Don’t go with him. He’s not a good man. We live here, we know. – The girls around nodded in approval.

- He seems to be nice to me so far.

- He told everybody that he kissed you.

I also didn’t have a good feeling about him, so I thanked the girls and decided to drop that mission. Bored, I gave the waitresses there a hand, then went to bed early. If you ever come to Haggae Mariam, please drop by to say Hi to Tina for me.

Tags: Border Crossing, Chip, Chipro, Ethiopia, Haggae Mariam, Hitch-hiking, Isiolo, Kenya, Moyale, People, travel, Travel and Write, Travel Diary, Yabello

I planned to leave Addis Ababa right after New Year’s (which was on Monday). But when I woke up on Tuesday, I suddenly realized that I had no idea what it was on the other side of Moyale, how to get there, or where to go from there. All I knew was that Moyale is the border. So I decided to spend one more day in Addis at a wi-fi place to do some research. What I found was rather disheartening. Everyone who has traveled overland from Ethiopia to Kenya before strongly recommended against doing it. And they all said that it would not be safe to do it alone. I was discouraged. In the meantime, Lien tried to convince me to stay with her until the weekend for her company’s party. I was half convinced. With the prospective of leaving on an unknown road lying ahead, the comfort of Addis Ababa suddenly became so inviting. I told myself that I’d just wake up the next day and do what I feel like doing.

I woke up and felt like leaving.

I packed my stuff. I’ve got so used to it that it took me less than half an hour to pack everything into my 2 backpacks. I thought that I’d made up my mind. But when I met Lien to give her the keys, I realized that I didn’t want to leave her. For one second, I was totally convinced to stay back to write, and I almost took the keys to go back to the house. But I was already there with my 2 backpacks. I had carried them a long way here.

- No, I can’t stay for nothing. I’m a traveler, I have to hit the road.

- But do you know what road you have to hit?

- No, I don’t know exactly, but I know how to ask.

At that time, taking a bus was already out of question. I’m gonna hitchhike through Africa.

It’s about 750km from Addis Ababa to Moyale, passing by Bishoftu, Shashemene and Awassa. It’s always difficult to hitchhike from a big city. You have to know how to get out of the city, walk for a long time to get to the right highway. An annoying thing is that people don’t understand the concept of hitchhiking. When you ask for the way to one place, people always show you the way to the bus station. You end up carrying your heavy backpacks round and round.

I was lucky that time. I’d been hitchhiking in Ethiopia long enough to know the general direction. I wasn’t sure of the road, but I pretty much trusted my instinct. After half an hour, I found myself in Debre Zeit, the main highway to the South. There is a long bridge with heavy traffic and no shoulder for pedestrians. Nobody would pick me up from this side of the bridge. I’d have to cross it.

I was scared like hell. Imagine walking on a highway with all cars driven in Ethiopian style passing just right next to your shoulder. Suddenly a UN car pulled over. I hopped on. I hadn’t had time to thank him when he stopped. He took me for about 50m further. I was a bit upset, but at least I was on the other side of the bridge.

Still nobody picked me up. I decided to try my luck at the petrol station. You know, petrol station is where cars stopped to fill gas for long-haul drives. I saw a blue car there. I had a feeling that this car would travel a long distance. I hung around at the exit, waiting for the car to come out then stick out my thumb. There were two men in the car. The driver made a “Whatsoever” sign and stopped for me.

It was the weirdest ride ever.

From the moment that I got in, two of them either talked on the phone or shouted at each other. They didn’t even ask where I was going, and I had no time to ask them. But I knew that they were driving the road I wanted to go. They stopped at a square where people were wailing. They got out and joined them. Then they got in and another man followed. They shouted at each other for a while, then the new man suddenly burst into tears. I looked back, seeing that everyone got into a van that drove side by side with the car I was on. Every half an hour, all of them stopped, got out the vehicles and wailed again. My curiosity was at its height. I’d seen this kind of wailing before, on the same road, when a car hit a kid dead. My best guess was that they were paying tribute to a friend or relative of them who was killed in an accident. I dreaded to ask. They didn’t speak much English anyway.

The van finally disappeared, but they kept driving for a long time. They stopped at a small town, in front of a restaurant. I expected them to invite me for lunch, but they showed me the way to Shashemene. I was half way from Addis Ababa to Awassa.

Hungry, I bought myself a pack of biscuits with a train of kids following me as usual. I was quite happy, as the man gave me the normal price, not the faranji price. An NGO car pulled over:

- Where are you going? – asked the driver.

- Awassa. Where are you heading to?

- Awassa. But sorry, we can’t take you. It’s an organization car, we can only take you if you go like 40-50km from here, but we can’t take you all the way to Awassa without permission.

- Then take me just 40-50km ahead and drop me wherever you want.

The drive shook his head and dropped off. That was weird.

By the man, a local tout joined the train of kids to follow me. A car stopped for me, and this tout ran ahead to approach them. They drove off before the tout reached them. I was very angry, but stayed quiet. I walked a bit further and stick out my thumb, he stick out his thumb as well. He shouted at me:

- Don’t worry, sister. I get a car for you.

“Wth? Does he really think that he’s helping me?”

- No, thanks. Leave me alone PLEASE. – I raised my voice. He still didn’t give up, but I repeated the last sentence with a high-pitch angry voice without PLEASE. He finally got the message.

I got a ride with a man and his two sons. They were on their way to Langano lake where his whole family was for the holiday.

- We’ll turn left at Langano lake and leave you in the middle of nowhere. – The driver was reluctant to take me.

- It’s alright.

- It’s really the middle of nowhere. In the middle of the dessert. There is no car there to get a ride with. – His son tried to convince me.

- Nah, it’s not the middle of nowhere. I know this road.

I had a good talk with them. They really enjoyed the idea that I was hitchhiking around Africa. They invited me to join their family to relax at Langano lake. They’d drive to Awassa on Friday. I politely refused.

I quickly got a ride got a ride with a family to Shashemene. It was a young couple with 2 small sons: one about 2 years old and another about 8 years old. The kids were sitting on the back with no seatbelt on. When I got in, the wife took the small kid to the front seat and put him on her lap. I offered the bigger son biscuits. He quickly finished the whole pack, and got in a cheerful mood. He stood up and started stalking in Amheric to me. Suddenly, his Dad hit the break. He fell right in the gap between the front seats and the back seat. He probably didn’t get hurt much, but he was shocked. He started crying. His Dad put him in the spot between two front seats to console him. Man, people here have no slightest clue about safety.

It was getting dark. I still had 500km more to go. There was no way I could reach there before dark. The wife kept asking me if I wanted to stay with them in Shashemene for the night, but I wanted to get to Awassa. I was craving for Awassa’s fried fish. And I wanted to see Mergia and the kids at Negat Children’s Home again.

It’s only 25km from Shashemene to Awassa. A fancy car with 4 young boys stopped for me. They were just going around Shashemene. They took me to the bus station.

- Oh no, I’m not taking bus.

- Why?

- I don’t want to.

They talked among themselves. Then the driver declared:

- Alright, we are taking you to Awassa.

- You are going to Awassa?

- No, just for you. Then we can go party.

I tried to explain to them that I was not up for parties, and that I had to visit the orphanage but they couldn’t understand my English. When they finally understood, we were already in Awassa. They were rather disappointed, but they still took me to Negat Children’s Home. Poor kids!

I knocked on the door. To my amazement, the kids called my name and ran towards hugging me. Wow, they still remembered name! I love them! Mergia promised to take me out for Awassa’s reputed fried fish and legendary red avocado. Since the moment I met him, I ate like crazy: one tibbs, 2 fried fish, a huge jug of avocado juice, a coke. I hadn’t eaten anything for the whole day, and too much food all of a sudden almost made my stomach burst out of indigestion. But it’s good to be home.

Tags: Africa, Awassa, Border Crossing, Chip, Ethiopia, Hitch-hiking, Moyale, Negat Children’s Home, travel, Travel and Write, Travel Diary

On the bus to Yabello, it struck me how different the bus conductor looked from the rest of us. He looked comfortable. While everyone was trying to fit ourselves in, some held their bags tight, some looked around warily, some stirred restlessly in their seats; the bus conductor just sat there, leisurely looking out of the window. He knew the bus, he knew where it was going to, he knew what he was supposed to do and what to expect out of it. On his bus, he had nothing to be scared of.
Each of us is comfortable where we belong to.
A bus conductor is comfortable on the bus.
A sailor is comfortable on the boat.
A traveler is comfortable on the road.
I’m comfortable on the road.
I might not know where I am going to, but I know that I’m "going". Somewhere.
“If you don’t know where you want to go, any road will take you there.”

Tags: Backpacker, Chip, Hitch-hiking, On the road, travel, Travel and Write