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

I’m devastated.

It was a long day, the longest day of my life: getting lost in an island, a fight, 2 police stations and being robbed by a group of 6 men with knives, losing my camera and all money I had left.

I woke up early in the morning. It was only 5am, so I decided to take a walk around Lamu island for the last time before heading back to Mombasa. The walk was nice, until I went deep inside the island and got terribly lost. The short walk turned out to take more than 4 hours. I was so tired that I had to knock on a house’s to ask for some water. The house owner gave me a glass of water, not clear but white, and I could see all the nasty things swimming inside. But I was too thirsty and too polite to decline. It tasted like washing detergent.

I came back to where I was staying on the island to get my stuff. There I had a fight with the house owner over the bill. He told me a price when I came, but when I checked out he asked for another price. I was so tired and just wanted to get back to Mombasa, so I paid him anyway. I left feeling like an idiot. Later, probably ridden with guilt, he called me to apologize. He said that since I looked so sad, I must have told the truth and he must have told me the other price but forgotten. He offered me 2 days staying for free, but I was already on a boat to the mainland, and wasn’t ready to face any other kind of treachery.

I reached Lamu mainland at around 10am. Lamu is on Somalia – Kenya border, and since the recent war between these two countries, the road from Lamu back has been the main target of Somali terrorists. All vehicles that go through this way have to have at least 2 armed escorts. When I came, I tried to hitchhike but failed since there was no traffic at all. But this time, having already spent more money than I should, I made up my mind that I’d hitchhike back to Mombasa. I got a ride with a jeep to Mokowe, a small town around 5km from the jetty. From there, I walked. There was absolutely no car. There was no moving things on the road apart from occasional monkeys. I found myself in the middle of a jungle. The sun was getting hot, my water was running low and my skin was getting burnt. But I was in a very good mood. I’ve always had a thing for the road, and being on the road again made me happy. I was also kind of looking forward to being back in Mombasa. I played my favorite songs and screamed along on top of my lung. The monkeys stared at me. I walked like that, singing and dancing on my toes, for around 1h until finally I got a ride on the back of a pickup truck. The road was awful, loads of potholes. I tried my best not to get thrown out of the truck. The car stopped in Mpeketoni. I joined the driver for lunch. Here he started asking stupid questions.

- Where are you from?

- Vietnam.

- Do you know history?

- I’m aware of it. Yeah?

- You know about the war with America? How was it?

- What do you mean how was a war? It was a freaking war, of course it wasn’t fun.

- Do you know why you won the war?

- Because we were good.

- No, because you were lucky. The jungle helped you.

Jesus Christ, I hated this kind of conversation. I hate people talking about our war as if they knew it. He then started asking about my trip. I told him that I’m traveling by hitchhiking, but he didn’t answer the word so I said “walking and asking cars for lifts”.

- You must not be serious. People really give you lifts?

- You saw me walking, and you gave me a lift.

- I’m stopping here. How are you going to get from here to Mombasa.

- The same way.

- No, you can’t walk from here. It’s too far.

- Of course I can.

- You are not allowed to. This is not a safe area.

- Who doesn’t allow me to?

- Me.

- Excuse me, I’m the only one who has the right to decide. I walk where I want to.

- You can walk, but you’ll have to sign a paper that if something happens to you, our hands are clear.

- I’m not gonna sign any paper. If you are afraid of responsibility, I’m leaving now.

I got mad. I hate it when people decide what I can do and what I cannot. I’d rather starve than to have to stand that paranoia through the lunch. I stood up and left. That man called the police. A policeman on motorbike approached me when I was walking.

- Excuse me ma’am, can I see your ID?

- No, there is no reason why I should show my ID to a random policeman. It’s not even a checkpoint.

- Ma’am, can you stop for a minute?

- No.

I kept on walking. The guy followed me for like 15mins. Then he parked his bike somewhere, another policeman joined him and they both walked after me. They grabbed my backpack:

- Ma’am, you have to stop. We need to search you.

I took off my backpack and left it to them.

- Take it and keep it safe. I’ll get it later, if anything is missing, you’ll have to pay for it.

So they were carrying my backpack and walking after me while I was shouting at them all the way.

- It’s offensive. You don’t stop random tourists and ask to search them as if they were criminals. I have traveled a long way and I have never been treated like this.

I wasn’t offended. I know I was being an asshole, even though I don’t quite know why. Finally their boss came, and he really stopped me.

- You are under arrest.

So I had to follow them to the police station. There they searched my backpack but I wasn’t very co-operative.

- You take them out, you have to put them back.

There were a dozen of men in their office and none seemed to be working. All of them gathered around and inspected every single item of my backpack. They found a tampon.

- What is it?

- A tampon.

- What is it for? It looks like a candy. – One of them held it up and sniffed it. Oh geez, do I really have to do it, in front of 12 inquisitive African guys?

- It’s for a girl when she has period. I hope you know what “period” means, ‘cos I really don’t want to explain it. – I laughed so hard that I almost fell off the table (I was sitting on a table). – And for God’s sake, stop smelling it.

I was carrying a bag of salt. They found it but probably thought it was heroine or something.

- What is it?

I decided to use it for my own amusement.

- Find it out yourselves.

So they all put their faces close down to the table, sniffed it, touched it but too scared to taste it. Finally, a man gathered all his courage to taste it:

- It’s salty. – He frowned, probably trying to think of any drug he knew that tasted salty. I couldn’t hold myself back anymore. I burst into laughing.

- Of course it’s salty. It’s salt.

After that came the interrogation which they called “interview”. I told them that I’m from Rainbow island and gave them all kinds of fancy names for whatever they asked and they totally bought it. Finally they were done. But I didn’t want to leave like that. I decided that I’d give them a harder time than they gave me.

- You made me late. I’m gonna be stuck in the middle of nowhere in the dark. You won’t want to be responsible if anything bad happens to me.

- We will put you on a bus.

- Are you going to pay for it as well.

So they put me on a bus and paid for the ticket. I reached Mombasa at around 9pm. In Mombasa, I was staying with a CouchSurfer called Philip. He told me that he and his roommate were cooking dinner and watching fireworks. It was Diwali, the festival of lights in Hinduism and Mombasa is full if Indians. I was too excited when I got the bus that I didn’t notice where I was heading to. I was just thinking to myself: “This road is kind of dark, I should take a matatu” when a group of guys approached me. One of them pushed me down on the ground and held me down with his knife. The others took away the camera bag. I ran after them and shouted. I stripped and twisted my ankle. I lost them. There were a bunch of security men in front of a hotel. I shouted at them in vain.

- What the hell is wrong with you? There are tens of strong men in freaking security uniforms, and a bunch of thieves ran right in front of your nose and none of you stopped them? Not that you didn’t know, I was shouting thief all the way.

- Sorry Ma’am, they have knives.

I felt more vulnerable and lonely than ever. I just sat there in front of the hotel, didn’t know what to do. I was still shocked to walk back alone, and didn’t have money to take a taxi as all my cash was lost with the camera bag. Somebody called the police. They came pick me up and took me to the police station to report. “Shit happens. 2 robbery in 1 week are too much, but at least I’m safe.” – I gathered all my leftover strength to act normal and smile. I hadn’t eaten anything since the morning. All I wanted to do was to get back to Philip’s place, take a good rest for few days to recover then decide what to do next. The police dropped me at Philip’s place at around 11pm. He welcomed me with the worst news ever:

- Kenya is in war with Somalia. The company is pulling us out. We will be evacuated tomorrow.

That means I’ll have to find another place to stay tomorrow. I’m too weak to hit the road again, too tired of this city to stay any longer, and too broke to afford a rest in a hotel.

I feel more lonely and vulnerable than ever.

I’m tired, but can’t sleep. I’m afraid, I won’t be able to face what is to come tomorrow.

Tags: Africa, Chip, Kenya, Lamu, Mombasa, Police, Robbery, travel, Travel and Write, Travel Diary

Travelers to the dark continent all know one fact: “Go to Tanzania to see animals, go to Ethiopia to see cultures.” With the population of 80 millions people, Ethiopia is the host of more than 80 ethnic groups, each has their own culture and language. But the most colorful are those who live in South Omo valley. From the moment I saw the photos of a woman with a ginormous lower lip that hung pendently below her chin, a man who slept on a wooden pillow to protect his clay-coated hair, I promised myself that I’d go to this valley no matter what.

Popular guidebooks like Lonely Planet, Bradt all say the same thing: “It’s impossible to travel independently” in South Omo. Except few towns and villages that lie along the main Konso – Jinka road, most other villages are inaccessible on foot or by public transportations. What they suggest is to on tour or to rent a land cruiser. A land cruiser with a driver costs no less than $100/day, and a 1 week tour costs no less than $1200, both options are out of question. I talked to few backpackers that I met in the Awassa just to realize that all of them avoided South Omo. “If you want to get rid of your money, go there,” a Slovak girl told me. She never went there, of course. Backpacking there sounded like a fairytale. Alex, the Irish guy who ran an eco-lodge in Konso, just giggled when I told him about my plan.

- How are you gonna travel there? It’ll take you days to walk from a place to another.

- I’ll hitchhike.

- Hahaha, good luck then – laughed he.

But my Ethiopian friend, Fidel, overheard the conversation and was deeply worried.

- Are you sure you want to do that? It’s a completely uncivilized area. There is no water, no electricity. People are illiterate, they don’t speak English. They can rob, attack you and you won’t be able to ask for help.

- Inshah Allah.

There is not much information about traveling in South Omo for independent travelers. From what I learned from other travelers, locals and tour guides, I know that Konso and Jinka are the most popular bases to explore the region. I picked Konso because it’s closer.

After 2 days riding on the local bus, I arrived in Konso at sunset, thinking that the bus driver must have cheated me or something. People call this a city!!!? Then my hometown village must be a metropolis. The whole city is dozens of shabby houses and few senile hotels evolving around a petrol station. I found myself a cheap room at St. Mary hotel, not before fighting with the people there to get the right price, not the “faranji” price. (People who travel to Ethiopia will hear this word a lot. People will just follow you and say: “Faranji, money, faranji, money”. Yes, it means foreigner.)

Because I was the only faranji at the hotel, I went over to Dula hotel to socialize with other travelers, hoping to get more information. I met an American guy who traveled alone and Sylvain, a French guy who traveled with his group. Both of them traveled with a land cruiser.

- Damn it, I’m the only poor traveler here.

- Yeah – Sylvain giggled – you are the first one I’ve met who doesn’t have a car.

- What I think you should do is to find somebody like me or him – the American guy pointed at Sylvain – to ask for ride. Unfortunately we have all visited the valley and are going back to Addis Ababa.

It turned out that I was at the wrong place to start the trip. Since everybody travels on tour, everybody takes the same route: Addis Ababa – Arba Minch – Jinka – Mursi village – Turmi – Key Afar – Konso – Arba Minch – Addis Ababa. I didn’t get a ride with them, but I got plenty of information: the tribes, the villages and the most important thing that all tourists go after: the markets. It only happens once or twice a weak at each town. “You have to see the market. It’s like you’re completely taken back to the tribal era.”

So there was nothing I could do there at this time. If I wanted to hitchhike with tourists, I had to start from Jinka. I talked to them for a while then I decided to go back to the hotel to take a good rest. From tomorrow on, I’d venture into the unfamiliar territory of South Omo, being the only lone traveler.

- Backpacking in South Omo – Sylvain shrugged – Good luck with that.

Yes, that’s exactly what I need: luck.

Tags: Chip, Ethiopia, Jinka, Konso, Mursi, South Omo, tourism, travel, Travel and Write, Travel Diary

Supervisor at a cafeteria called Ice Blue – just 15 mins walking from Mika’s place.

1000 Bir (~$55) + free food. 2 days a week I can order anything from the menu and the rest of the week 3 tough meals a day. The salary for 1 month here is like 1 hour pay in Israel.

And that salary is already 4 times more than a normal waiter.

If I spend absolutely nothing which is apparently impossible, I’ll have to work for 6 whole months to save $300 to go Kenya.

Tags: Africa, Chip, Ethiopia, job, travel, Travel and Write, Travel Diary, Vietnam