Lalibela.
Morning. churches. stone and carvings. churches carved out of the
mountains. solid stone. 24 years to make all of the churches,
including the biggest one. eleven churches total. built by king
lalibela during his reign. St. George, the church carved in the shape
of a cross. immense. set inside the earth. the depth. the angels
helped, of course. jesus gave king lalibela a golden cross that was
able to heal people. it was stolen but was found being sold in Belgium
for $2500. the stories are endless and many. we have been told
repeatedly, use your own brain to decide what facts are truth.
st. george. a monk and a nun mummified for 300 years. in the depth of
the walls. the stone walls in rich earth tones. bright oranges and
rusts. mosses and lichen cover the walls in yellows and bright greens.
intriguing network of underground tunnels and passageways. carved from
the stone. steep steps and stairwells. designer windows. intricate
shapes and patterns. chants and prayers. monks dressed in robes and
traditional hats. they carry their wooden hand crosses. a constant
reminder. when we take pictures, they wear sunglasses and hold tall
staffs with large crosses on the ends. an incongruous sight. the fleas
latch on to my pants. two days to rid myself of the flea invasion. we
return to st. george for sunset photos. I attempt a sirsasana. it is
not taken well. I give up on yoga next to the church. when in
lalibela…..
the red, bumby face rash seems to be diminishing. thanks to a lovely
cocktail blend of sun, malerone, pitta aggravating foods, travel and
sensitive whitie skin. the effects are lethal. on top of this blessed
mitigation, it should be announced that a very important transit has
occurred. today is a new day of days. I have now entered Buddha Guru
Guru (Mercury Jupiter Jupiter Dasha in Jyotish terms.) it is official.
according to the Vedic pundits. I can feel the change. though it might
now be complete and official for two weeks or so if we are using
Parashara's system…..but the change is in the air.
crazy breakfast guests. Country to my left spouting off some
gibberish. Sean talking lovely smack as per usual. then jettin' with
toast still in his mouth. ahh. the bwois.
the sounds of chanting monks filling the air. the holy breezes of
Lalibela. cleanish clothes. some good rest, meditation, yoga and food
under my belt. a must. feeling fine. feeling good. passing through
town on our way out. monks passing by. a long, bumby road ahead. and
hilly climbs on our way to Desai. Umars' home turf. textiles await.
back on the road.
land cruiser conversations. I tune out. too much time together. not
enough alone, inward time. some solitude is in order. it becomes
obvious now that we're back in the confines of the auto.
no solitude till Brooklyn….
more villages passing. grassy thatched roofs. wombyn carrying large
burdens on their backs. young, little shepards. animals run
archaically across the roads. captain swerves to miss them. we all
shout "gobez, captain!!" (good work, captain!) as he narrowly misses a
goat.
another day in paradise.
driving through Marsa. captain pulls to the side abruptly. "five
minutes." he says. we see him greeting and hugging a man in joyful
reunion. apparently an old friend from twenty years ago. a sudden
meeting on the side of the road.
we are in muslim territory. more mosques than churches. more round
hats and hajib. tall camels carry burdenous loads. tropical plants.
sugar cane, papaya, guava, banana….we stop to fill the air in a tire.
a group of bwois gather at the car. Ahmed says something about Ramadan
to the bwois. one of whom is eating a guava. he asks why he's not
fasting. one of the bwois responds for him and says the boy in on his
medicine. "for what?" asks Ahmed. "HIV." he says. Ahmed tells him
that's not a joking matter. "it's not a joke." the boy says. "here in
Marsa, having HIV is like having malaria." the tire is full. captain
slams the door. yells "zorbat!!" to the boys (scram!) and we speed of
eagerly toward Desai.
often the level of conversation on this journey leaves something to be
desired. egos get old really fast. the egos in this car could light up
the night sky at times! someone liberate us. fast.
gash umar is joyful to spend the night with his family and kindred. we
enjoy a nice dinner and celebrate at the hotel. another late night.
chalk it up to Ramadan.
towards addis.
on the way home…back to addis…leaving Desai. immaculate, muslim men in
long shirt dresses and headwear. little, sparkly hats. wombyn with
full head wraps. camels packed with big loads. a rope tied around
their heads and in their mouths for leading. happy faces carrying
bright umbrellas. sun protection. dust. more bumby roads. hotter sun.
blessed breezes.
breath.
breathing. sometimes a chore. especially when in addis or other
cities. exhaust, diesel, dust, fumes, smoke and heat. a difficult
combination. sometimes breath is impossible. often restricted. I put
my shirt over my nose. inhale. exhale. the air is visibly dark and
grey. hazy. no one else seems to notice.
Gerrard to Country: "do you have any pop o tin, country?" the gum of
choice. from Taiwan. apple flavor? country has been getting charged
ferrenge prices for gum. more humor to add to the pile.
the parties.
in some way, it's been one, long party since I arrived. greeted with
huge spliffs, hugs and beats. late nights and chat fests. eight people
raging it from addis to lalibela and back. shashe to wendo genets and
beyond. when we are home, in addis, the parties increase. when we're
on the road, nights become a celebration as well. overjoyed for being
out of the car, breaking fast for Ramadan and happy to be alive. so
the chat and ganja sessions continue to manifest themselves. dusk
brings breaking fast and a mood of celebration for the whole group.
back in addis, two reggae shows at meskal square. late night skanking.
music. one drops and beats. happy crowds and laughter. and afterwards,
the after parties. we trek home. with a motley crew of ferrenge and a
couple abisha. we take over the street. two bwois from Israel. another
from Norway. Miranda and hopper. josh and gerrard. country and aha.
timezkin decorated brightly in his red, gold and green attire. fatoom.
jahvin from the UK. me.
we bust through the front doors. kick off our shoes. I take to the
controls. "blaze it up salectah!!" they shout. "pull up! pull up!
rewind. big ups!!" jah cure streams out of the speakers. the riddumz
come loud and strong. the spliffs are big and plentiful. the room is
smokey and full of intense energy. the night goes on. the dance floor
is energized. I keep the riddumz coming.
these are the timez.
ferrenge prices.
it's known. we're ferrenge. whities. foreigners. so we're expected to
pay more. we have more. it's known. If it weren't for Ahmed, fighting
for fair pricing for his group of ferrengies, we'd all be paying 60
burr for a papaya. one must be quite savvy. argue your way to a
reasonable pricing agreement. from hotel rooms, to pop o tin, to softs
from the street kids. ferrenge pricing is taxed. it helps to speak
amaringha and to prove you are more acclimated to abisha ways. but try
as you might, you're still white.
southbound.
heading towards shashamane. hotter weather. not so rocky. flower farms
and huge greenhouses. roadside markets brimming with hubhub
(watermelon) and tomatoes. beautiful wombyn with super curly hair.
tight ringlets. short bangs. bobs. distinct in face, hair and dress.
Oromo country.
huge termite mounds dot the landscape. tall, skinny trees with flat
ubrella tops. short, bushy trees. fields. crops. foods. cacti. bush
land…
no words.
speaking without words. the exchange of glances. the nods. with eyes.
mouth and smiles. the wink. the way the body moves. the body response.
all is based on intuition. intuition is lively here. I cultivate
stronger senses. I am finally able to use my skills to their
worthiness. and converse without speaking….my first chai latte was
ordered through telepathy. uncle ahmed knew I wanted one. he looked up
at the barrista. pointed to his cup, pointed to me. held up one
finger. then gave a nod. my chai latte came perfectly seven minutes
later. I've been in love with them ever since. no words necessary.
here, we use vibezz. I am becoming trained in the art of not talking.
flat tires.
flat tire number four. on the way to shashe. ok, three flats. one
blowout. all seem to time themselves well and fortunately. the blowout
occurred as we stopped to look at wool rugs somewhere on the way to
lalibela. I was standing next to the car as the tire blew. I thought a
grenade had been thrown. my left ear rang for twenty three hours. a
crowd gathered around me as I teared up and crouched on the ground.
blessings from God. God will protect me. they say. we change the tire
and get back to the potholes.
today, it was a loud pop and sizzle. we stop. a crowd gathers.
curiosity. ever-present. the tire garage just happened to be right
there next to us. we give thanks to the coyote trickster once again.
tire is fixed. we drive on. south.
shashe way.
we might as well be in JA. the lam lam (greenery) is so intense and
thick. fruit trees and lushness. rolling mountains covered in green.
day hikes up in the hills to visit fresh springs. raging waters. warm
pools. small waterfalls streaming from the mountains. vines to swing
from. sun bathing and cleansing. fresh. refreshed.
we arrive. early. our connections are not in sight. Dahvia signing up
for school. Ras Paul en route from addis. we wait. spice tea warms us
at the shop in front of Dahvia's house. we sit in a dark, mud shack
with metal roof. long, narrow, wooden benches to sit upon. a young
girl hacks sugar cane with a blunt blade. Dahvia returns. wearing
criss attire. white runners, red pants, a polo shirt and golden tam. a
beautiful rasta youth mon. his mother: pure abisha. his father: a
repatriated JA rasta and head of the twelve tribes of Israel here in
shashe. HQ is down the road. (rasta head quarters. where humble vibez
aren't notorious apparently. ahmed and hopper depict a strict and
unwelcoming vibe.)
Dahvia, though, is pure refreshment. his humble
spirit and constant reflection are inspirational. his skin shines. his
white teeth gleem. his locks are perky and full of life. he speaks
with his eyes which exude his heart's mind. he has the ability to
revitalize and uplift his rasta roots. we are upful.
late night chats and spliffs and reggae on vinyl with Ras Paul.
Kickin' it in his yard. a UK/JA repatriated rasta and his young daughter Tsion. the air is thick and the conversations intellectuallyspiritual. his home: the best yet. red, gold and green are utilized
throughout as accent color. nearby craftsman created his large dining
table and bamboo couch (inlaid with star of Judah weaving.) it is
neat. tidy. well made. brick and concrete. metal windows and shutters.
an outdoor oven. open kitchen. he tells us two and a half years to
build and 9,000 burr….we set up our tents in his yard. a cactus tree
of huge, ample stature. tall grasses. hibiscus bushes. tiny, bright
birds. parrots. pure niceness.
ferrenge status.
rolling through another "checkpoint." whitie in the front seat. waved
through by the military police in blue uniforms. again. we've only
been stopped by one checkpoint in all of Ethiopia. on the way back
into Addis from the north. even then, they barely hassled us. such an
oxymoron. we're charged more for everything. we're expected to pay.
because we can afford it. actual ferrenge prices are utilized at
hotels, restaurants and such. abisha prices are also in place. we're
easy to spot anywhere. we get hassled and heckled and attract immense
and persistant crowds. we also walk through armed guards and gates and
make our way to the best parts of the stadium for concerts during
millennium celebrations. we drive through checkpoints. people want to
carry our bags for us. they do things that anyone else would never
normally do. even if paid. colonialization has left it's mark. in
fact, the marks are vivid and still quite alive and well. this is a
strange sort of status.
duppy bidness
I actually expected it at some point. some way. some how. try as I
might and as careful as I've been, duppy found his way with me. the
night after our day at the springs, I was taken swiftly by the belly
aches and nausea. food poisoning. some fear rose in me. we had all
eaten from the same platter. all cooked foods. no one else had the
slightest of reactions. the bwois all swam in the same waters that
day. no one felt a thing. I recalled the rack of bright yellow bananas
that ahmed bought as we left the pools. we all voraciously ate a few.
I had a very ripe one. but so did the rest of the crew. so we'll never
know what took over my belly and kept me weak for days after. still,
four days later, I can't look at shiro or injera. it is sad to think.
but sait la vie. thankfully, now I am out of bed and even survived
the long, strenuous ride home from shashe as an invalid. (literally
barely holding it together in the front seat with Gash Umar as we
lurch, pop, stop and accelerate, the beats ever loud and streaming.)
the house was an oasis. my bed: a dream come true. I stayed there,
curled up in fetal position, not moving for what seemed like a day or
two. the loving and tender care of Miranda was a god send. Hopper and
Ahmed checking on me diligently. heading back to addis a day early,
just in case a doctor was needed for me. the café was a buzz with
concern and questions. the love is blatant here.
I was given mint tea and banana cake to revive my self. the window and
curtains flung open to let in air and light. a welcome visit from the
two sisters at the back of the house. they point to my stomach. their
eyes ask the questions. I express all is "turruno" now. (it is good.)
smiles and acknowledgements are exchanged. they bring in the rest of
the laundry from the line. the house is quiet. all are out and about
addis. the silence is welcomed.
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