Finally – after having spent several days waiting in Djibouti City – I receive a positive answer when I visit the port office in the morning: there is a boat to Yemen, and it will depart that very evening.

I’m told to come back at 3 pm with bike and bags – apart from me, a Japanese couple, a few Somalians, a Djiboutian and a drunken Ethiopian also arrive. Two hours later, we’re let inside the port area for immigrations control, customs check and boarding.
The small open, wooden boat lies tightly squeezed in the harbor, in-between huge container ships – more resembling one of the cargo ships’ lifeboats. I and the Japanese spread out our brought with mattresses on the upper deck – a simple platform of boards stretching across the stern with the helmsman on a small stool at its very back. The cargo is made out of ”sim sim” – sesame seeds – and to no surprise the cockroaches are both fat and plenty. By the look of the boat, it appears that we are the pirates!

When the Ethiopian man climbs on-board, he positions himself by the gunwale, exultantly un-zips his jacket and shows off the three bottles of St George beer which he’ve fit tightly into his jacket’s inner pockets. A fourth bottle is in his fist, half empty. ”Fuck the Arabs!”, he proclaims loudly, and like the other passengers I ignore him as best I can – better be-friend the Yemeni and moreover Arab chef on-board, I thought, even though the offer of a shared beer felt pretty attractive too.

We depart soon after sun set.

The actual trip between the two continents take longer time than expected. Pretty rough sea, a few seasickness pills and 24 hours later, we reach Aden harbor, but are forced to sleep another night on-board as it is Friday and weekend for the immigration officials on land. I dream myself forward along the road in Yemen – desolate, chalk white beaches, villages that by themselves nearly define the word ‘calm’, and a terrible amount of police escorts as protection against the country’s few but dangerous lunatics.

A little more from Djibouti City now after I’ve spent a few days. Maybe the most quiet capital city I’ve ever visited in Africa, it’s yet a wonderful mix of people and cultures thanks of it’s place right on the crossroads between Asia, Middle East and its own continent. Yemen, Somaliland and Ethiopia are the most evident contributors to the melting pot. A recent, less pleasant reason for its multi-culture is the conflict in nearby Somalia and the not-yet great security in neighboring Somaliland. In fact while I visited the Internet café today, three Somalia passport holders sat outside in the shadow, filling in the forms for entering Egypt. That’s where the UN has a large refugee centre, and that’s from where they will eventually – Insha’Allah – be able to enter Europe. They where all from the vicinity of Mogadishu.

A man at an internet café arranges an interview with national TV RTD for me. It’s my first ever, and it’s in French which isn’t my strongest side (I just picked up a little of it in West Africa two years ago, and hasn’t practiced since). The most amusing though is that the interview is broadcasted in four versions – one in each national language: French, Somali, Afari and Issa – with my voice dubbed. I enjoyed watching myself speaking Afari. The boys in the local convenience store asked me for my autograph the next day.

Of the many things Djibouti has to offer – mostly dramatic desert landscapes, beaches and diving – I didn’t experience much due to the high price tag on activities here. But one thing will inevitably be there to enjoy – the mixed melting pot that this country and especially Djibouti City is. I’ve eaten bananas from Somalia, drunk coffee from Ethiopia and spiced a delicious Yemeni oven-baked fish. On Rue d’Ethiopia, nightclubs are as plenty as in the very country its name refers to; the girls just as business minded, too. On the streets of Quartier Heron, where I’ve stayed, you’d often see a stationed French soldier on his way to the supermarket. The Americans have their base a bit outside the city though, so they’d rarely be seen. In the supermarket, typical French goods dominate the shelves: chocolate, petit yoghurts, pâté de foie gras (goose liver pâté) and bathroom perfume sprays. All but the latter is delicious, of course.

The weather forecast map on TV yesterday: five suns spread across the country, and four arrows pointing inland to mark the direction of the wind. I can imagine the map being the same 90% of the year.

Leaving Sudan through the East was quite non interesting – flat savanna and acacia bush land with the usual villages every now and then – but as peaceful and relaxing as only the Sudanese can make it. The fact that Ethiopia followed therefore made the border-crossing unusually much of an event; rather hectic. From a culture that embodies peace, and a religion that forbids alcohol, to one of the noisiest (for good and bad) cultures I’ve ever met.

The music (buses regularly have their speakers on the OUTSIDE of the bus instead of inside) to the spicy food, the drinking and prostitution. A whole book could probably be written about that simple border – in itself just a small concrete bridge over a dry, rocky river bed between two small towns, but with a much greater impact on those who cross it. Anyway – most of the change was welcomed: beer, cheap hotels and restaurants, great coffee in the country which is home to the very region ‘kaffa’, cheerful music and in towns also wonderful cafés with delicious pastries/cakes and fresh fruit juices of mango, papaya, guava and my favorite avocado. And although crossing the country from West to East meant some steep, winding roads taking me from about 500 to 3000 meters and back down again – most of them terrible, rocky gravel – it also meant breathtaking views and landscapes.

The one problem with this country – very well known in-fact – is its children. Although the people are generally polite and nice talking to once you sit down with them, they will without exception treat you as a donkey if you only pass by. The children sometimes run after you for miles, screaming ‘you, you, YOU’ or ‘Give me’, ‘Pen’, ‘Book’ or ‘Money’, and occasionally end up throwing stones at you. And for sure those kids, who start herding cattle at age five or so, are excellent throwers. I couldn’t even throw half the distance they could. Adults usually act bystanders, silently approving their kids’ misbehavior, and if asked only explain it with ‘they’re just kids’ or ‘this is a poor country’. I’ve seen many poor kids, but never had stones hailing above my head (fortunately none hit me badly). Now I shouldn’t waste your time describing the bad kids though – the highlands where just beautiful to the contrary. And what a perfect place to celebrate Christmas with chilly nights and cool days, which make a Swede feel at home, and excellent food and beer.

To the East, the country offered some desert landscapes before the road entered Djibouti. There, too, a barren landscape lasted all the way until Djibouti City by the coast. I’m now waiting for my visa to Yemen and the ferry to its major port Aden. Back to Asia. Meanwhile, wonderful French teacher Francine – a friend of a friend – lets me camp on her backyard in this quiet city. Couldn’t be much better!

After two days of cycling in the bare desert landscapes – not sand, but instead stones of all shapes and colors – I finally reach Djibouti City by the sea. I hitchhiked some 40 kilometers because of a bad stomach. I’ll stay in Djibouti City for a few days to rest up, treat my belly (fifth time on this trip) and obtain the visa to Yemen before I finally hike with one of the dhows across the sea.

I stay with French Francine who works here as a teacher – I got in touch with her via another Swedish cyclist. Her kids are on a visit, too, so I camp in the garden right next to the apartment building in which she stays.

Information on Visa to Yemen
I applied for visa at Yemen Embassy (tel 352975/356680) in Djibouti . 08.30-11.30 Sunday-Thursday. One photo, one passport copy and 7150 DF (about 35 euro). Got it the next day, but might be possible to receive same day.

Information on Boat to Yemen
Started asking for boat at Port International on the 4th of January and finally got it on the 8th. Just before the main gate, to the left is the so called Surveyors Office, with the boss Abdul Karim(tel 870284), who is very friendly. Office is officially open 08.00-14:30.
On the 8th, I paid 7,000 Djibouti Franc (DJF) (bicycle was free of charge), received a ticket in the morning and was asked to come back at 15:00 to board the boat. It was said to depart at 16:00 and if the weather was good reach Aden 14 hours later. Destination Aden is unusual though – a friend of mine got to the more usual Al Mokha last March (reached within 16 hours). My friend had to wait ten (!) days to find a boat. I’ve been told that there are only some 5-6 boats that accept passengers.

Revalues my (short-lived) depression on the lack of juices and cakes. Now when I’ve had my first self-cooked spaghetti with olive oil and a few roughly chopped red onions, and I’ve slept outside again under the stars on a reed-carpet, it doesn’t feel that bad any more. No door to lock when I go for the loo – I can see my bike by the road from the bushes a few meters away.

Besides, I can dream again of a really good meal, further up the road, instead of actually eating it. As King said (based on a Charles A. Beard quote):
”Only when it’s 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.