Cuba - Caliente!

After a three year absence from Vancouver, my amazing friends surprised me with a plane ticket home for the month of July. Apart from being wonderful to catch up with everyone, I couldn’t believe how much the city has grown and changed. I barely recognized certain neighbourhoods! I will be spending six months there in between graduating here and starting my Masters in Geneva next September, and I’m now actually looking forward to it. Admittedly Cape Town feels more like ‘home’ these days and I will miss it desperately but I need to earn some hard currency, which the Rand decidedly is NOT, before relocating to Switzerland. Naturally with my acute travel addiction far from in check I felt the need to take a side trip somewhere new. I’ve been in a Cuba state of mind lately, hoping to reach its shores before the death of Castro and the opening of borders to America. Plus, despite the distance from Vancouver, charter airline tickets to Varadero are cheap!

I fell madly and deeply in love with Cuba. Not the ‘tourist’ Cuba of Varadero five star all-inclusives – to stay at one of those is to completely miss the essence of this little island nation. Rather, I lost my heart to the real Cuba, the one that seethes with life, with colour, with culture and with music. It may be imperfect, crumbling, sometimes a little smelly and oppressively humid – but somehow every mundane little scene manages to look like a postcard. Brightly painted American cars from the 1950s and communist issue Ladas bomb around the pockmarked streets along side bicycle rickshaws, coconut taxis, scooters and horse drawn carts. Old men huddle around makeshift tables on street corners engrossed in dominoes or chess. The roads are cobble stone, the buildings perfectly dilapidated and mismatched, as if styled just so. Even the stray dogs are impossibly cute– although I found it strange to find a purebred German dachshund posing on every second stoop. The people were wonderfully warm. In South Africa, as a foreigner I often perceive a vague undercurrent of something slightly dark permeating every day life. While Cuba has faced some pretty significant struggles of its own there is a lightness, a friendliness to it that really embraces you.

First, it is a very safe place to travel. With a regime that threatens thirty year prison sentences for killing your cow (the government owns 50% of every animal) you can only imagine the penalties against anyone caught violating a tourist, tourism being the bread and butter of the Cuban economy. This means that apart from pickpockets there isn’t much to worry about. What is a scary proposition however is taking a long distance taxi. Think no seat belts, no suspension and no breaks. Oh, and no sticking to one side of the road. Luckily there isn’t much traffic since few outside the cities have cars, but it’s not an experience for the constitutionally weak.

What they say about the food is true. Cuba is not a culinary destination unless you enjoy a good bout of food poisoning. Most travellers I encountered were having adventures of the upset stomach variety. Yes the lobster is cheap, but as a general rule the food is pretty inedible – think greasy pork and bland beans. This does not apply to the cocktails however. The fresh piňa coladas are divine as are the mojitos and mango daquiris. These are people who know how to mix a drink.

A cursory scan of Varadero left me under whelmed so my trip began in Trinidad, a 500 year old UNESCO site situated on the south coast. Think cobble stone streets and rainbow row houses with ornate trims. The streets are the domain of horse drawn carts, bicycle taxis and the occasional 1950s American car. It seems like much of the population doesn’t work, instead spending their days on the doorstep. Life is lived publicly – all street facing windows open wide onto private living rooms and much takes place on the sidewalks out front. Grocery stores are almost empty save a few eggs and random products. No snacks, no supermarkets. It’s a little confusing when you are used to having access to so much how little is actually for sale here.

 Following the advice of friends, I booked myself into a casa particulare, which is the best and often only way to stay while travelling outside Cuba’s big cities. Casas are private homes where local families open their guest rooms to travellers, cooking and caring for you. It’s a fantastic way to meet locals and other travellers casually trekking around the island. I adored our host family, especially the mama who cooked the most massive meals. She must have thought despite being two we were eating for six.

Unfortunately the weather was iffy in Trinidad; apparently it was the start of hurricane season so every afternoon brought a serious thunderstorm and cascading streets. One eventful day we narrowly missed being incinerated by lightening while lining up at a horse drawn beer cart; I was left feeling electrically charged. Another time it rained so hard that a friendly local had to shelter us in her house until it abated. Our lack of Spanish meant we weren’t able to muster much conversation beyond hand drawn air pictures but after an hour our arms were tiring from all the gesturing and it was time to move along. As a parting gift they presented us with fresh mangos. This is how friendly the local Cubans are – where else in the world do they invite you in for shelter and then give you presents? We decided it would be funny to hire a bicycle taxi back to our casa because by this time the streets had transformed into gushing white water rapids – it’s a miracle we didn’t get washed away and it made for the most interesting bike ride of my life so far. That night, I joined a group of Germans on an outing to the local night club, located in a giant underground cave and reachable only by traversing unlit, dirt paths through a large-scale construction zone. The setting was spectacular, though the scene left a little to be desired and the cave ceiling dripping into our drinks was a bit on the icky side. Possibly the most exciting aspect was narrowly missing a giant scorpion in the middle of the dirt path.

The next day, craving some beach, we hopped on a moped and drove through the lush greenery down to Ancon, a white sand beach with clear turquoise water the temperature of a warm bath –ah, the Caribbean. From there we hired a catamaran and sailed out to a coral reef about a kilometre off shore for some snorkelling. It wasn’t quite up to Hawaiian standards but still made for some fun. The rest of the time in Trinidad was dominated by serious cigar smoking (are cigars addictive? Because damn did I crave them for weeks following my return); black market, back room cigar dealings and cigar factory touring; and lots of cocktails and music – live, glorious salsa and dancing in the streets late into the night. It was magical. While the government may be strict, life is lived with joie de vivre. This is not what I expected to find in one of the last strict communist regimes.

Other stops included Cienfuego, with its French colonial buildings and Santa Clara, home to all things Che Guevara – mind you, the entire country is peppered with Che and Castro tributes. But my other highlight was Cuba’s frenetic capital, Havana. It is quite different from the rest of the country – gone is the relaxed nature of the locals, and here you must fastidiously watch for muggers, pick pockets, beggars and hustlers. Actually, the constant inundation of aggressive beggars, thieving wait staff and Latino lovers does grow exhausting very quickly. But, despite this, Havana is a sparkling, historic jewel. Seventeenth century forts and cathedrals intermingle with Che and Ernest Hemingway’s old haunts, and crumbling remnants of impossibly glamorous early 20^th century Havana – the playground of  America’s rich and famous in a bygone era are interspersed with ‘Viva la Revolucion’ murals and missiles from the Cuban Missile Crisis. El Capitilio, the parliament building, is an almost exact replica of Washington Capitol building except built exactly one foot taller – to show communist dominance. Havana is a city in a state of beautiful decay – paint is chipped just so and faded to the colour of a water painting. If you love photography as I do, it is impossible to walk down a street without stopping multiple times to capture scenes. What I wouldn’t give to have seen Havana in its 1930s heyday.

Havana is a sprawling, bustling metropolis, but this doesn’t detract from its charm. It’s not a walkable city – while certain neighbourhoods like Viejo and the seaside Malecon are fine to explore on foot, to visit sights like the massive cemetery (the size of a small city) and the colossal Jesus statue, you’ll need to hail one of the 1950s vintage taxis – which is also part of the fun. Here too music is everywhere – live in every restaurant, every bar and on every street. This is a place where people break spontaneously into song. It’s funny watching the ubiquitous salsa dancers because you will immediately notice that locals move with an innate smooth precision, while tourists jerk around mechanically – there is no comparison. Don’t ever participate in a dance off against a Cuban – you will lose. And my god the younger men are gorgeous – deeply tanned skin and dark hair paired with the most crystal blue eyes. On the flip side, the older generation walk around sporting cropped tank tops that fully expose large, protruding bellies (the legacy, I assume, of a life time of greasy pork dinners). They are also ardent admirers of women. Every male, from a ten year old boy to a 90 year old grandpa will shower you with compliments. Over dinner we discussed how if you are having an ‘ugly’ day, a walk down the streets of Havana will very quickly lift your ego.

Politics is inescapable in Cuba. I was amazed how many locals wanted to engage with me on the subject, though this might be because I am a political science major. Propaganda is wide spread and done very artfully – Castro, obviously an aesthete, must have employed talented graphic designers to imbue his nation with his Revolucion chic. ‘Todo por la Revolucion’ is a refrain seen everywhere, even in the countryside. The country’s military might, for instance tanks, fighter jet and missiles, is also widely displayed. Soldiers are a frequent sight and high ranking military dignitaries cruise around town in Lada limousines.

If you’re a literature fan, Havana again has a lot to offer. As former home to Victor Hugo and Ernest Hemingway among so many others, there are many pilgrimages to make. We visited Hemingway’s hotel room (which incidentally has the best view in town) where he wrote ‘For whom the Bell Tolls’, still perfectly preserved since his last days there. In the closet still hang his clothes and Louis Vuitton suitcases. And boy, are there a lot of half-emptied rum bottles. Personally, I find the more I’ve had to drink the harder it is to write, but Hemingway obviously had no such problem. Of course it was also necessary to have cocktails at the Floridita and his other old town haunts. Of course they are now kitschy tourist traps, but when in Rome…

Havana is brimming with so many grand old buildings, museums and boulevards. The university radiates intellectual pomp, the Hotel Nacional successfully preserves its early 20^th century splendour, and the Grand Teatro is still spectacular. La Rambla, the main street through Havana Vieja, teems with activity and the Prado is lined with old mansions and marble statues of guardian lions. Old city squares are crammed with antiques dealers selling old leather bound books and revolutionary relics. Grandiose monuments dedicated to political figures are scattered throughout the city especially along the Malecon, Havana’s answer to the seawall. At sunset, fishermen line the route, hoping to secure a better dinner option to greasy pork. As with the rest of Cuba, Havana is a graveyard of sorts for old American cars in various states of disrepair. Their rainbow colours provide the perfect complement to the candy coloured buildings.

I think I can safely say that I have now seen quite a lot of the world – this is country #40. I started this blog too late in my travels hence missing covering a lot of really interesting places I have already been. But Cuba – this is one of the absolute best so far. It’s such a shame that most people come here on all-inclusives. Really, do yourself a favour - get out there and see this country for what it really is. Unless you hate culture, you will not be disappointed!

The Garden Route, South Africa

After nearly three years in South Africa, it seemed high time I do the Garden Route, a length of road stretching from Mossel Bay to Tsistsikama national park in the Eastern Cape. It’s South Africa’s answer to the California coastal highway or Australia’s Great Ocean Road – gorgeous ocean views on one side of the road, rainforests lining the other. The air feels much fresher down this way and it reminds me how the Vancouverite in me really misses forests.

Our first stop was Mossel Bay, which was… uh…pretty average. It’s on the map because back in the 1400s it was the first place Vasco de Gama, a name you might remember from high school history class, attempted to build a settlement.  There’s a museum complex with remodelled galleon, a few artefacts and a boot statue in the location of South Africa’s very first 15^th century post box which took the form of an old leather boot. The town itself is blue collar and industrial - all in all, not terribly exciting or nice. Half a day sufficing, we drove onwards to Knysna, stopping at little beach hamlets along the way to dip our toes in the very cold Indian Ocean.

Knysna is infinitely nicer and definitely has the feel of an upscale holiday town. The area is comprised of quaint wooden guest houses, many of which dot the forested hillside like little jewels. Here we ate fresh seafood, engaged in some W+ style shopping (me, not Johannes), and checked out the surrounding wildlife parks. There’s an incredible exotic bird sanctuary just outside town with some of the most spectacular - and bizarre - species I have ever seen. There’s also a monkey park, home to many furry, cheeky primates who reminded me of various people I know. My absolute stand out favourite however was the wild elephant sanctuary where orphaned elephants rescued from Chobe in Botswana and Kruger are cared for until old enough for re-release into the wild. Being fanatical about elephants, I decided to spend a small fortune on the opportunity to take one for a walk. Thus I was soon introduced to Miss Thandi, a friendly teenager with long eyelashes and a lot of attitude. Despite the pouring rain, she placed the tip of her trunk in my hand and off we went on a ramble through the woods. Not surprisingly she was a fast walker so I had to hustle to keep pace. She must have thought I was cold because about halfway along she sucked my hand right up inside her trunk. In case you have ever wondered, it’s hot and very steamy in there. At the end of the walk I was able to play with her a little (she tucked my head behind her giant ear), and feed her – once again, my hand was sucked up her trunk like a vacuum. Despite the horrible weather it was a pretty special experience - and yes, wearing a garbage bag as a raincoat was also special but in a different kind of way. Anyway, I really hope there is a particularly gruesome place in hell for the poachers who kill the parents of these elephants and the poor near-extinct rhinos. If there was ever a cause I would encourage people to get behind, it is the flight against illegal poaching.

We really enjoyed our seaside time around Knysna and Plettenburg Bay but decided to check out some alternate scenery for the drive home so we headed inland for the Karoo, South Africa’s desert, and the famous Route 62 drive. First stop was Oudtshoorn, an old Afrikaaner outpost and home to the Cango Caves. I have seen a lot of caves on my globe trekkings and didn`t expect to be impressed. The reality:  I was totally blown away! Imagine kilometres of underground caverns housing the most incredible rock formations. No words, or at least none that I possess, can express how truly mind blowing these caves are.

What other fun did I find traversing the Karoo? Oh, just a little ostrich riding! We stopped at a dusty old ostrich ranch so that I could tick off one more animal experience from my to-do list. Was it one of my prouder moments? No. Was it hysterically fun but kind of terrifying at the same time? Yes! Johannes, out of a mix of fear and pride declined to join me. There were some hazards - for instance apparently ostriches can kill you with their crazy clawed toes. Also, you look ridiculous while riding one. Undaunted by his warnings I, with the help of two assistants, climbed on the back of a very frisky bird with a burlap sack over its head. My legs were tucked under two large, fluffy wings, and my hands were placed at their base. To stay on you must lean back as far as you can and then hold on for dear life. Their back is domed and therefore not that conducive to riding, kind of like how on one humped camels you feel perpetually poised to topple off. Needless to say, once the sack comes off all hell breaks loose and the ostrich goes crazy. I clung on as best I could but lasted only a few minutes before not so gracefully flying off. How was it? Like an African bird rodeo. Would I do it again? Probably not, but it was hysterical while it lasted.

I love the Karoo so much. The rest of the drive wound hundreds of kilometres through lunaresque desert surroundings speckled by the occasional tiny dorpie and sprawling ranches. The landscape, especially the flat top mountains, is spectacular, and frankly the remote feeling of being so far from civilization is really satisfying.

Addis Ababa: Capital of Ethiopia

Addis Ababa is a sprawling African metropolis much more affluent then what you generally find on this continent. It’s still dangerous enough – armed guards are stationed by ATMs and people live behind huge fences. I stayed at a backpackers in Bole, a very international and therefore moderately safe neighbourhood. I also managed to befriend a taxi driver, owner of a seriously pimped out Lada, through his fierce feminist of a sister on my ride in from the airport. He agreed to be my driver for a few days and thanks to her many threats, took good care of me.

Being in a big city I decided to engage in some shopping and checked out a few of the massive street markets, though avoided the famous Mercato because it sounded terrifying. Ethiopia is famous for its woven cotton so I splurged on fabrics for our house, as well as some black baby Jesus paintings (after all, where else in the world do you see that?). It is also known for its music industry and so cds featuring exotic, almost Arabic music make for a good buy. Despite the urban setting I was still passed by flocks of sheep in the cbd, which mystified me – where on earth do they sleep at night? How do you herd your sheep in one of Africa's biggest cities? Everywhere we stopped in traffic – and boy are there some crazy traffic jams – we were besieged by beggars squashing their babies against the car windows.

Plastered everywhere, and I mean everywhere, are giant posters of the recently deceased President with tearful epithets. Apparently he was a hero to Ethiopians. Anyway, it is quite a political city, full of government buildings, the AU headquarters, a massive US embassy, and a beautiful university. It is also home to a couple of famous churches, including the massive Holy Trinity Cathedral where the priest tried to rip me off by demanding money to take photos (this was not for any charity, this was for his pocket). I said no and took photos anyway as next to leering, trying to scam money from tourists appears to be the second biggest male pastime, holy figures included. The other church is the cathedral built by Emperor Haile Selassie, icon to Rastafarians the world over.

Selassie’s church is surrounded (maybe besieged is more appropriate) by deformed, aggressive beggars, similar to what one finds in the old city of Jerusalem. One must constantly and vigilantly watch over belongings here. I decided I wanted to see the inside of the church, but alas my driver was not allowed to come with and it was required that I go inside with a special guide – another deacon. Oh boy I though, here we go again. Despite being a massive church, it was deserted inside except for a lone priest. Although I had to pay for my ticket and the guide, the priest also held out his hand demanding money. I gave him a little to get him off my case, and in return he gave me a leer. My guide proceeded to take me through the church, showing me Selassie’s various belongings and paintings depicting his ‘heroic’ deeds, especially again the Italians. We eventually reached the back where his marble sarcophagus lies. I had just started taking photos when all of a sudden my holy deacon-guide shoved me up against the sarcophagus and pinned my arms down by my sides, trying to force himself on me. I started yelling, not that the old priest cared, and shoving him as hard as I could. Luckily, I was able to fight him off but was terrified and so, so shaken by the incident. I ran for the exit and he chased after me saying “Oh, I can tell now you are a good woman” (let me guess – all white women are assumed bad!?). I grabbed my shoes and hurried back outside to find my driver. When he arrived I told him what happened and he immediately went to the administration and told them. A group of men went out hunting for the pervert, I mean deacon – he had obviously disappeared as well as he could but they found him and dragged him back. A giant circle formed around us and much accusatory yelling in Ahmeric ensued. He denied everything, calling me a liar while the crowd insisted he apologize. He kept refusing, saying “I’m sorry for the thing you think I did but I didn’t really do’- it was absolutely killing him to have to eat it from a white woman. I called him a liar (and many bad other things) and loudly pointed out that I certainly wouldn’t make up a lie like that about the likes of his scrawny ass. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, he said sorry.  I found the whole experience doubly terrifying because there was talk of calling the police and I did not want to get involved in a police incident in a country like this. Plus I was detained while they hunted for him and then had to watch while accusations flew in a language I can`t even begin to understand. Basically I just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

I was so glad it was the second last day of my trip. I was also doubly glad that I made friends with a friendly American from San Francisco at the backpackers and so had someone to spend evenings chatting with, and who already know the good local restaurants – as well as to provide male company to walk the streets with at night so I could feel safe. He also introduced me to the local beer, Saint George`s. You know you’re in a religious country when ever the beer is named after a saint. I was also lucky enough to make it to the last day of my trip before having my stomach beset by the famous Ethiopian tummy troubles, ironically caught from food at the local Korean restaurant.

One more piece of luck - I flew back to Cape Town on the new Boeing Dreamliner, which was a treat. I am excited for the future of planes if they will all be modelled on this. I did later hear that Dreamliners developed a tendency to burst into fire mid-air, so am glad my flight was uneventful. When I arrived home, flea bitten and filthy, I was immediately thrown into the shower by my relieved yet vaguely disgusted boyfriend (was it the baby dreads, the flea bites or the lack of bathing I wonder?). The paranoid bugger also immediately loaded my entire suitcase contents directly into the washing machine. I am happy to announce that no fleas made it back to Cape Town, and our house remains a flea free zone.

Ethiopia Stop #2: Gondar

My next destination was Gondar, a 17^th century city littered with ruins of Italian castles. I hopped aboard another Ethiopian Airlines turbo prop for the 300 km flight and was seated beside a white robed shaman who swatted at me with what looked like a short broom covered with long animal hair for the duration of the flight. Luckily it was a short hop and the view from the window of Lake Tana and the mud brown Blue Nile provided distraction. From the air it almost looked like a greener Grand Canyon lay below.

Gondar itself is a pretty, peaceful little city built around the ruins of a huge royal enclosure. It almost looks European, except for the tuktuks and donkey carts that dominate city traffic. In the mornings kids walk along the roads wearing brightly coloured school uniforms alongside elderly priests who generally stared at me with great suspicion. Even in the middle of the city herders cruise along with their flocks of sheep or cows in tow. Apart from the historic castles, I certainly wouldn’t come for the other Italian architecture that is so praised on travel sites – unless you like mid 20^th century concrete blocks. Gondar is located in a very lush region that for some reason reminded me of Taipa in Macau, with the same twittering rainbow songbirds and rolling golden hills. The people dress very colourfully – it’s a blend between traditional peasant garb, priestly attire and tattered western wear. The women are quite beautiful, slim with light skin and stunning bone structure. In fact everyone is slim because as it turns out, running marathons up mountain sides is a national pastime that starts in childhood. That would explain all the Olympic gold medals in distance running.

I again hired a guide – luckily this time apart from staring he was quite polite. He drove me to a famous church called Debre Birhan Selassie, in such a gorgeous location that I had to spend hours exploring the surroundings. Inside the ceiling was painted with the heads of people burning in hell’s fires and this time the priest was interesting and chatty. I also explored the various Italian palace ruins including Fasilides Castle and baths, Mentaub’s Palace and Iyasu Palace.

I also spent a lot of time people watching as my hotel was located in a lively old part of town and I was able to talk to many locals and even make some friends. This hotel didn’t have fleas (a miracle!), but the bathroom managed to outdo even rural Chinese standards of nastiness. Suffice to say, I didn’t bathe much on this trip. I figured it was cleaner to avoid what passes for a shower. Besides, like an obediant household pet, at no point did I want to accidentally rinse off my thick layer of flea repellent.

One general thing that fascinated me in Ethiopia was that although people’s homes were in shambles they all featured giant plasma screen televisions. I found this particularly interesting because I have been pleading with Johannes to buy one for ages. If Ethiopian mountain peasants can have one I don’t see why we can’t.

After three days it was time for the final stop, Ethiopia’s capital city Addis Ababa. En route to the airport I saw a sign for the road to the Sudan border. Turns out we were right by it. There are actually some pyramids I want to see in Sudan at some point but my driver assured me that the second you cross the border you are beset by hustlers and criminals. So…not a good idea just yet, then.

Misadventures in Ethiopia: First Stop, Lalibela

Like most children of the 1980s – courtesy of Band Aid Christmas videos – I envisioned Ethiopia as a drought ridden desert filled with flies, starving children and vultures. What I found was a green landscape of dramatic mountains and jagged valleys intersected by the winding Blue Nile River. Despite being impressed by the beauty of the place – it’s tough to beat watching a golden sunset from a remote, ancient mountain top village while orthodox chants echo through the hills – this was my hardest trip to date. It didn’t get off to the best start, and I’m not sure it ever really improved. The history was also impressive but overshadowed by the horrific behaviour of Ethiopia’s ‘men’, a term I use loosely since they behave more like rutting dogs in heat. I’ve hacked the Mediterranean, Asia, South America, even the Middle East. But none of these places, with the exception of Egypt, even comes close to the level of harassment I experienced here. Straight up – for travelling women, Ethiopia is horrifically bad.

 

There is nothing quite like travelling in deeply patriarchal Africa to turn you into a raging feminist. Why is it that the more religious a society (Ethiopia is orthodox Christian), the worse the women are treated and the more depraved the male behaviour? If there is one struggle I have faced above all others while living here it is learning to accept other cultures with which I so utterly disagree. The treatment of women in many African societies is heartbreaking. Not to generalize, but it is pretty standard that women on this continent work very hard all day, rush home to make the dinner, then clean the house until late in the night – oh, and they also raise the children. The men meanwhile are down at the local Shibeen drinking away whatever is left of the woman’s hard-earned money, all day and night long… that is when they’re not busy harassing (or straight up stalking) female passer bys on the streets. I have never been propositioned for sex so much in my life. It was revolting. Keep reading because it gets even better. 

As I said previously my trip here started oddly, a trend that was to continue throughout. Having done my research as I always do, I expected functioning ATMs to be few and far between and Visa facilities non existent. The advice was to bring foreign cash because Bir are unavailable outside Ethiopia. So I brought a stack of Rand, assuming that Africa’s major currency would be accepted in a city that was, you know, home to the African Union. Imagine my surprise when I learned in the airport at midnight that no banks or foreign exchanges accept Rand in Ethiopia. Not the national bank, not the airport exchange. Luckily I had $20 USD in my pocket which covered the cost of my entry visa. So the first crisis upon arrival was dealing with a stack of useless foreign currency as my only means of payment for a ten day stay. This was magnified by the fact that my flight to remote Lalibela, which has no bank, was leaving at 7 am. I couldn’t even try to find my way to a Canadian embassy. A feeling of cold dread washed over me – this was going to be a problem. I decided nonetheless to take my flight to Lalibela and see if there was some way to organize assistance from there. So I hopped on an Ethiopian airlines propeller plane and flew over many jagged mountain ranges to the small mountain village that houses the 3^rd century UNESCO rock hewn churches.  

 At the tiny Lalibela airport, touts from local hotels jockeyed to snare guests with promises of free rides into town. Seeing as I had no money, I decided to play along. As we bumped along the dirt road it dawned on me just how deep into Africa I was. We passed shepherds in traditional dress and livestock rather than cars ruled the road. We had to stop for mid road bull fights at least twice. I eventually arrived at my hotel, which featured a beautiful mountain view, a toothless old man who read hilarious phrases to me from his English book, and a concrete bathroom with a rusted metal door and a toilet that only flushed via a jug of water (this is the case pretty much everywhere in Ethiopia; amazing how fantastic flushing toilets become when they’re scarce). I decided to head into the village to find the one foreign exchange/phone booth/internet cafe and whatever else it doubled as. The village is pretty steep, everything is an uphill hike – Addis Ababa is the world’s highest capital, and Lalibela is 4000 metres above sea level. As I wound my way through the city streets the harassment started, many local men mistaking me for Asian…and here we go again. About 80% of people wore orthodox Christian robes and few wore anything resembling western wear. Apparently clothing was optional anyway as one man strolled past me wearing a cropped t-shirt and nothing on the bottom – not even underwear, just full junk on display. I’m not really sure why he bothered with a crop top? On the one hand I wanted to take a photo, on the other I didn’t want to get caught looking and I certainly didn’t want to have to try explain why I was taking a photo of his crotch. The latter sentiment won out.

 After a lengthy hike I found the multi purpose foreign exchange… which refused to exchange my Rand. As I stood debating whether to cry or have a tantrum a friendly British couple approached, seeing my obvious distress and offered assistance. They, angels that they were, exchanged a large sum of Bir with me – effectively saving my ass. I also managed to send on the world’s slowest internet connection an SOS email to my parents and boyfriend. Turns out it’s quite upsetting for parents when their remaining child is having problems in remote reaches of Africa. Later that day as the sun set over the mountains I listened to the religious chanting reverberate from the ancient churches carved into the hills around me. It felt quite surreal to be where I was – so foreign, so exotic. Despite all the trouble, I felt like an adventurer.

The next day I awoke to the sound of chanting at sunrise. I hadn’t slept all that well because as with most accommodation in Ethiopia my hotel turned out to be flea ridden. Anyway, I was excited to start my tour of the famous rock churches of Lalibela. I had seen photos and travel shows about the area for years and was thrilled to finally make the trek myself. Built in the 3^rd century by King Lalibela and inspired by his pilgrimages to the holy land, there are twelve churches as well as many monasteries and caves in the surrounding countryside. The most famous of the churches is Saint George which appears from the top as a giant cross. Nobody really knows how the churches were built since they were carved out of solid rock and the technology to do this shouldn’t have existed in 3 AD. Angels are credited but as for a more earthly cause, this remains under debate. As per recommendations I hired one of the official guides to show me the churches. A deacon, I assumed his religious standing would ensure me a harassment free day. No such luck. Instead he inundated me with constant offers of sexual services – he wanted to help me ‘relax’ (maybe he could tell I had just finished final exams??), and numerous pleas ensued that I cheat on my boyfriend with HIM, because after all my boyfriend would never know and besides, European girls ‘like sex with the black man and never go back to white men after they’ve tried it’. By the end of the day he was ‘in love with me’. I want to know if there really are European women who take up losers like this on their offers, inadvertently exposing all white female travellers to these sex pests.

The churches themselves are really spectacular – magnificent even. They are spread throughout Lalibela, into Northern, Southern and Eastern clusters, all with slightly different features. The closest thing I can think of is Petra, although they aren’t quite on Petra’s level. Inside, they are covered with old religious paintings and images of black Jesuses and Marys. Shoes must be removed before entering each building but the wet dog scented carpets within are, yet again, completely flea ridden. For protection I brought all of our mismatched single socks and wore three at a time, throwing them away as I went. Each church also had a dedicated priest who immediately wanted ‘donations’ to his personal pocket. Sadly for me some of the churches did not allow women to enter. I spent the whole day exploring and really enjoyed it, until my charming tour guide dumped me off in a township area surrounded by shacks, with some teenager who spoke no English and gave me seriously weird vibes. Everyone was staring and yelling because there was no way tourists show up in those parts. Of course they wanted to sell me things.

The next day I decided to explore on my own because I couldn’t handle another day of deacon sponsored creepiness. As I made my way up the hill I was again pestered endlessly. I decided I needed a break and so went for lunch at the one tourist friendly hotel and café at the very top of town. I must confess I was already mentally exhausted from the first two days which had left me feeling lonely, harassed and stressed. So, it really made my day when a group of American diplomats from the US embassy in Addis motioned for me to join them. They bought me lunch then made a concerted attempt to scare off some of the creeps who were loitering around the entrance awaiting my exit. To Matt and company, I remain eternally grateful. After lunch I retraced my route from the day before, stopping to take photos along the way. I had to walk through the countryside to reach the furthest churches – I was so enjoying the peace and quiet when I noticed a man in the bushes, following me. Naturally, this made me nervous. Every time I would stop, so too would he. I decided that I had better turn around as there was no one else around and even if there was, I doubted they would help me. Of course he kept following me – eventually he caught up. Turns out he just wanted to proposition me for sex in the bushes.  By this point, riddled in bites, it was tough to determine if the fleas or the men were the bigger pests.

 

I spent the rest of my time in Lalibela exploring the town, sampling the local food, and drinking Ethiopian coffee which they prepare for you in a coffee ceremony. Along with the churches, the coffee proved another highlight – it tastes incredible but really packs a punch. Needless to say, the local coffee houses were teeming with leering men, if there was a woman she was only there to make the coffee. I can’t say I was sorry to leave after four days of this.