Tänkte förut på det där om deprimerande att lämna allt det goda i Etiopien. Nu när jag ätit min första hemgjorda pasta med olivolja och ett par grovt skurna rödlökar som dom gav mig, och sover utomhus under stjärnorna på vassmatta, så känns det inte speciellt pjåkigt längre. Ingen dörr att låsa när jag går på toa – jag ser cykeln från buskarna en bit bort.

Dessutom kan jag nu drömma om en riktigt god måltid, längre fram, istället för att faktiskt äta den. Som Martin L. King sa:
“Only when it is dark enough, can you see the stars.”

In Bouldugam, I meet local Muhugeta whom chase away the locals and help me to order some food – tibs b-dabbo (fried meat with bread). Then a short visit to a newly wed couple. Women and men separated in two different locales, a few blocks away from one another. The men chewing Kat and drinking Coke. The women just drinking sodas. The latter came in crates as gifts from visitors, and was then shared with the guests. One of the guests acted speaker of the ‘king of the day’ (the groom) and played a game in which he accused the visitors for giving too few gifts. The guest accused was then asked to explain himself, and if he failed could face punish such as dancing in front of the others.

Diche Oto – from Italian “Diciotto” (18) – is named so since it is 218 kilometers from Eritrean port Assab, although that road is currently closed due to the conflict between the two countries. The town is no more and no less than a truck-drivers’ stop.

There are a few prostitutes in town. I meet a man who’s been working for the security services – once bodyguard for the country’s president when on visit in Stockholm, he mentions proudly. His ethnicity is Tigrayan, of course. I got that part explained to me earlier in the day by a young man whom I met: all government folks are Tigrayan, since the president himself is. He told me further how 5 million people demonstrated in Addis Ababa a while ago – in other words at least one million from outside the city – but that like a sign from God a hailing rain had begun, so fierce as he’d never seen it before: ”I couldn’t open my eyes!” Everyone went home – the anticipated pressure on the government didn’t realize. The military cut off the power and demonstrators started to vandalize. More than 1,000 people where shot dead.

Speaking of the stagnating democracy, he continued: ”I’m ready; my family is ready.” He expressed it as if a danger of genocide on Tigrayans was imminent: ”There’s just a couple of millions of them.”

It’s been easy to adapt to fresh juices, cakes, good food and good beer being available on a daily basis – even though I often abstain the latter if I plan to cycle the next day. But I almost need a clinic to re-adapt to it’s absence – and to keep sane despite the hot desert air, the head wind in which ones voice disappears before it’s even heard and the life-less villages with crazy villagers. And once again people smoke like small coal power plants. Depressing.

Nazret Hotel. A tour group invites me for dinner.

Djibouti Café, Dubai Boutique – I can tell by the names of things that I’m cycling in the right direction. Besides, mosques are getting plenty and Al-Jazeera English is the choice at most cafés with a TV.

Literally sit back and roll down the 600 meters altitude and 25 kilometers of tarmac to neighboring town Kombolcha. I stay the night there and take it easy; enjoy the good food and cafés – already missing it, as I know Djibouti will be far more expensive.

When give the price, I’ve pretended to leave almost every single hotel so far in Ethiopia – always resulting in a 5 to 10 birr reduction of the price.

Up again to 2,400+ meters altitude and main-town Dessie. Tarmac. Enjoy the cool air for the last time – the road ahead will once and for all wind down to sea level in Djibouti as it continues through some arid landscapes.

Stay at an anonymous hotel with its name written only in Amharic. It’s owners are Muslim, indicated by the praying room nearby the entrance, and as such a sign in itself that I’m closing in on the lowlands where Islam predominates as opposed to the Orthodox Christianity of the highlands. A second-floor room with a window towards the busy street outside is 20 birr.

My stomach has started to rumble and every now and then feel a bit warm – I’ll probably end up regretting all the fresh juices I’ve been drinking. The juices are normally watered out with a bit of tap water and thus not 100% safe to drink. For futures sake, I buy a set of Ciprofloxacin for a dollar – no prescription needed, of course.

I stayed in Woldiya and Dessie partly because I wanted to see if something had changed since my last visit as a backpacker a few years ago. Both towns was almost just the same – one or two more buildings; the same “under construction” main street through town. One thing I noted though was the show-off kind of mosque that was rising outside Dessie. The kind that is built to rise above town – indicating that it’s about politics and not religion. I hope Ethiopia can resist – I always thought the monasteries here where so beautiful partly because they where so subtle, simple buildings. Always shadowed by the eucalyptus trees, yet always colorful.

I think of the even more simple churches in East Africa – often just wooden tin-roof shacks. In comparison, the show-off buildings are ridiculous – be they minarets in Dessie or church towers in Stockholm. It’s so dated to see such constructions in the 21st century. Religion as if it is still politics.

An easy day on the saddle – the tarred road almost finished – leads me to small but pleasant town Hayk, situated by the lake with the same name. I reach in late afternoon and find decent ‘Fasilidas Hotell I’ with a second-floor room for 20 birr.

Like yesterday, the road continues to follow the mountain ridge with relatively boring, rolling hills in comparison to previous days’ scenic mountain passes and snake roads. But come afternoon, the exciting descend to Weldiya (at 2,000 m.) begins: a twenty or so kilometer long snake-road, winding down to the fertile valley floor below.

Weldiya will be my host for Christmas – celebrated on the 24th by Swedish tradition. How? What about bananas, peanut butter and fresh avocado and mango juice available for the first time in a few days? Yummy!

I stay at Ganet Hotel for 15 birr per night plus give myself some extra hours of rest by paying for wash – 2 birr a piece.

I’m still new to the cold up here, so I tend to split my showers in two: body one day; hair the other day. Brrrd!

Spend the next evening in the bar/restaurant at Tinsae Hotel. Christmas Eve feels distant. St George beer, tibs b’dabbo (meat stew with bread). The music is deafening – it doesn’t matter much that I have no-one to talk with. The red light inside is weak, but just enough for writing a couple of sentences. The locals watch me curiously – ponder over who would eat and drink by himself. They make me feel uncomfortable. I’d more than gladly share a bottle of red with another faranji, but there is no one around.

Gashena – junction-town between Woratta, Weldiya and Lalibela, with an amazing ten kilometers of fresh tar to the East – is very much ‘junction.’ Roadside motels, a petrol station and a whole bunch of truck drivers – needless to say more.

The truck drivers occupy most of the hotel rooms; their trucks stand parked along the main-road. Together with their mechanics, the drivers spend the last hour of daylight to prepare their vehicles for the next few days of rough dirt road.

The sun sets. I notice the many people here who’ve been infected by polio – many limping legs.
The little tarred road here is very thin, maybe two centimeters. For how long will it last?
My large hotel room is so dirty that I don’t have to feel ashamed at all when I drive my bike inside, and clean the chain there too.

Another 45 kilometers up the road, passing just below Mt Guna, I make another early stop – this time at main-town Gaind. If it was only the terrible gravel and the occasional steep climbs, I would continue to cycle throughout the day, but with the infamous groups of children that follow me at least once every kilometer, I’m completely stressed out by noon. They even end up throwing stones at me, on average maybe five times a day, and occasionally threaten me with their walking/herding sticks. Ethiopian children (silently approved by their elders who act bystanders) treat visitors the same way they treat their cattle.

Stay at Atlas Hotel.

In the evening, a boy and his friend leads me through the darkened valleys of sand and edgy stones to this evenings big event – Arsenal will play Liverpool. English football is huge in Ethiopia, and the small room is cram-full.

We’re lucky to catch the last few seats. A dozen or so wooden benches are lined in tight rows in-front of a large canvas. The beamer has been put up in a handmade wooden box in the roof above us. For once it really feels as if I’m on the pitch – or rather in the changing room after the game. The smell of sweat from the fifty or so villagers – most of them probably farmers in one way or another – is intense. The stuffed, hot air is suffocating. There is a lack of oxygen not because of the altitude but because Ethiopians insist on keeping doors and windows closed at all times. The cold and fresh air seems to be viewed as an evil creature, to be fought and kept at distance at all times; at any cost.

Start at seven and cycle just 30 kilometers, but reach Kamer Dinge only at noon. The road is constantly climbing and will continue to do so for another day or two – from the 2,000 meters around Lake Tana to the 3,000+ meters nearby Mt. Guna (4,135).

Kids threw stones after me at three occasions today – at one time terribly persistent as they followed me for some three kilometers. Besides, I’m such a terrible thrower, especially compared with them who throw stones at their cattle day after day to corral them. So my only chance to escape is to cycle fast.

The hotel is decent and simple, as is usually the case in the smaller villages. At the market – very busy with mostly spices, fabrics and cattle for sale – I successfully find the only stand selling fruits and vegetables. Bananas, tomatoes and carrots; a kilo of each for a total of just 14 birr (1,5 euro). The stand and its saleswoman was hidden under plastic covers – maybe because of the harsh sun; maybe to protect from insects and flies.

I head back to my hotel room and make lunch – spaghetti with a sauce from the veggies that I bought. Tomorrow to Gaind and another 40-45 kilometers of bad road; probably steeply ascending. I look forward to finding coffee and fresh juices again in that slightly bigger town.

I’ve already spent more money in this country in two weeks’ time, than the Per Capita GNP quoted in my 2001 guidebook.

The road from Woratta (Fogara in Amharic language) to Weldiya – crossing the Ethiopian highlands at 2,000 – 3,000 meters – is yet to be tarred. And although work is in progress, it’s a slow process and most of the road is still tough gravel. In fact the road was supposed to be all tarred by this month’s end, but the road-sign ‘Man at Work’ (instead of the usual ‘Men at Work’) tells the whole story!

Tarred road the whole day – two snake-road climbs and descends; occasional views of Lake Tana a few kilometers away.

I stay the night in Addis Zemen (Libo Kamkam in Amharic language) at wonderful Heva Ward Caffe and Pension for a euro a night. Clean linen, mosquito-net, electric light, a nice, lush inner yard. The attached café serves tasty juices (mango, papaya, avocado, guava) and cakes. The classic La Cimbali espresso machine does the job for a good espresso in the morning. Ethiopian singer Tigist Fantahuns cover of Kenyan song Jambo Bwana echoes from the café radio – it’s a song that can not fail to cheer you up. I almost stay another night just because of the comfortable hotel.

If you ever pass by here, don’t miss ‘Laus’ – the peanut butter tea! Locally produced peanut butter is heated together with water using the steam pipe (milk frother) of the espresso machine. Awoke, a boy I meet in the café, says he drinks the tea to put on kilos. ”Good for fat, because I’m skinny”, he says, faithfully sipping from his cup. Good for kilos or not, the taste of it was pretty likeable. On the contrary, don’t try the mango tea. It sounds better than it is – it’s made from Foster Clark flavor essence.

Ethiopian date and time settings confuse my further conversation with Awoke. I ask when the next election will be – 2002, Awoke replies. Awoke suggests that we meet again at 12 o’clock – a time that has already passed by our clock, but actually translates to 6 pm.

We watch a bit of the local news and I ask him to translate what’s being said. “I can’t understand these news either – we have 80 languages in Ethiopia” he says and continues ”’My’ news start at two (eight) pm.”

Making the final day to Gonder is no less exhausting then the previous two days, but at least about half of the roads length has already been tarred. I and Charlie celebrate with some good beer in pleasant main-town Gonder – technically a town, though still with a village-feel to it.

My stomach has been bad ever since the border – in fact these past three days have been some of the toughest I’ve ever cycled – so I’ll spend a few days here to cure myself. And while Charlie will soon continue his way south towards Kenya, I’ll make it east towards Djibouti.

The Internet is dead slow – a bank official in a neat black suit whom I met at a café, told me that it’s all because of corruption. In fact, he said, the speed was decent until recently, when the government suddenly decided to change their provider (after some fresh bribes?).

Obama is huge – t-shirts with his portrait sell in abundance in the market; portraits of him decorate windows of clothes shops and photographers’ studios. Someone cheered: B for Black, A for Africa, R for Rastafarian (?), A for America, C for Cool (?) and K for Kenya!

I watch the old men in the bars and cafés – dressed in discretely grey, green or brown colored wool suits and a matching beret. Most often drinking a beer, but occasionally a Pepsi or the Ethiopian specialty: coffee and tea mixed.

Women and men alike – especially when walking far distances on countryside/rural roads – carry a black or sometimes brightly colored umbrella as protection against the sun, which is especially fierce at these altitudes.

The classic Ethopia Hotel – the I fallen off and a “utopia” comes to mind – has a wonderful, large café where time seems to have stopped since the Italians left. A five meter high roof; huge mirrors on the walls; on the floor brown-reddish leather couches and sofas and matching steel/plywood chairs. A tilted bar with an espresso machine in classic wine-red and white occupies a corner but is still the given center piece of the locale. Fortunately just a few of those infectious plastic flowers from China have yet made their way here.

Just like yesterday, the road is bad, the hills are high and the kids are quite terrible most of the time. At least the view now is rewarding to say the least – and green after some late-season rains the previous week.

It’s a Hallelujah moment when I pause for the first time above 1,500 meters. The cool air, the faint breeze, the leaves on the ground, the green trees, bushes and mountain slopes. Fresh Papaya for sale in a village.

For the first time in a long time I’m not even sweaty after a long ascent in midday sunshine. My shirt is no longer striped white by salt from sweat after a days riding, stiff like paper because of all the salt; or dirt brown from the sand attached to the sticky wet fabric.

In Ethiopia, the local food finally deserves to be mentioned as ‘culture’. Injera with spicy sauces. Coffee, tea, cappuccino, home-made biscuits, scrambled eggs, spaghetti, pizza and samosas.

The huge espresso machines – brought by the Italians during the occupation some seven decades ago and kept in shape in true African “conserve what we have”-spirit, become more and more frequent in towns as we get closer to main-town Gonder. Great coffee, in other words. I used my last grams of instant coffee that I’d carried from Egypt, and made space in my bag for fruits instead. Those, too, came with the vicinity of the main road to the capital. Despite a far distance of maybe 1,000 kilometers to the nearest fruit plantations, juices of guava, pineapple, mango, and avocado are dirt-cheap at about 50 US cent for a 30-40 centiliter glass. Thicker than Turkish yoghurt – truly delightful!

Stay the night at a hotel, 12 kilometers from Chilga (also Aiykel, Aykel, Chelga) at 2,146 meters altitude.

I’ve lost count of the number of times that I’ve loudly expressed the relief to myself of the cool climate and distant views of the Ethiopian highlands. For the first time since Turkey, my eyes have been able to gaze further afield than just a few kilometers. It’s been possible for me to strain myself up a strenuous gravel climb at midday yet still barely sweating. The temperature and the cool breeze has made me ecstatic at times. At night, at least one thick blanket is necessary to keep the cold away inside one of the stuffy, mud-walled, -floored, -roofed village hotels. Cozy!