A Little Excursion

Living in Addis does not make one want to go anywhere. Life is far too good to bother. So you can see that I have become very lazy. On the other hand, I do try to go to work every morning and that gives a structure to the day, even if there is nothing important to do. I can indulge in typing my blog instead.

So this is the account of a trip made to remind me that I am still a traveler.

It was time to try out the little train which goes to Djibouti, the only contact with the sea that Ethiopia has now that Eritrea is so very separate, despite the longing in the soul of the Ethiopians to reunite. Thus the war on the border continues and if you want to send a letter to Eritrea, it goes via Italy. Djibouti, with its very strong French influence, does not appeal to me. I understand, once you have traveled through the desert to get to the town of that name, it is just a modern, bustling port. It is the only sea-contact that Ethiopia has and all exports have to go through there. So the plan was to go half-way on the train to the town of Dire Dawa, which is the fulcrum of the western road routes. I had hoped to be able to go to those parts with Ingrid & Co., but we may not have the time. And anyway, if we do go, then I will at least know what to expect and how to ‘guide’ them….

Being very lazy, it seemed a good idea to ask Felik, my ‘Saturday Guide’ student, to accompany me. He could be my local protection and translator. As a Tourist Guiding student, a visit to those parts was part of his familiarization trip over a year or so ago and he was keen to reinforce his knowledge. Exams are over and although he is supposed to be assigned to a Tour Operator for practical experience, the inefficiency of the College has meant that he was not yet placed.

The railway line is one of those special little lines that go down in the lists as a ‘must-do’ for world-wide railway enthusiasts. In hindsight, it might have been worth it to continue to Djibouti because the spectacular scenery is apparently only after Dire Dawa. But that would have involved visa applications and more time. Maybe maybe…


The line was completed in 1917. It had been a frustrating operation beset by years of delay. The French consortium which finally completed the line, had control for many years and this is still reflected in the station building where all signs are in Amharic and French and the area for catching a bus or taxi is known as la Gare. During the time of the Derg (Communist Committee 1974-91), the railway was neglected and it has only recently been reinstated as a passenger service. A South Africa firm has apparently taken on a contract to run the service, but all I could see was the ancient French signs.


All this sounds easy. But had I not researched it beforehand, our departure may have been fraught with frustrations. Fortunately I had established that the train only left on three days of the week and that you cannot buy a ticket in advance. It is supposed to leave at 3pm, but one day I was at la Gare at 4pm and it had not yet left because they had discovered that someone had forgotten to fill it with diesel. It left 30 minutes later. There are other stories of delays and warnings not to plan a tight itinerary around the train times. I do not know how the freight trains work, but suspect that there is another depot for them as I never saw any.

Down a little gravel road along part of the disused line is a ‘museum’ known as the Emperor’s Carriages. Once again my laziness to organize a visit has prevented me from seeing inside, but from outside you can see the wonderful Art Deco white and chrome carriages which were given to Emperor Haile Selassie by the French government. Four immaculate carriages can be visited if you have the incredible patience to arrange a visit and pay 24Birr per person at least 24 hours beforehand. I had tried to pin the man responsible down to ‘opening times’ when I was researching my list of ‘Museums in Addis’ for the students. It was an extremely frustrating interview because the Ethiopian does not see time as we do! Sometimes being a tourist can be very taxing!

Felik and I arranged to be at la Gare at 12 noon. Contrary to what I had been told before, we were then told that the ticket office will only open at 2pm. So we set off to find me someone who could supply and administer my Hepatitis B booster injections. I had already asked doctors, been to various Hospitals, Clinics and Pharmacies. Wherever one went, one would be told a different story. There are many Gov’t. and Private hospitals and clinics as well as pharmacies (both Private and Gov’t-owned) which are sometimes three in a row on a shopping street. The search continued (even a very kind Gynecologist in one Hospital spent a long time making telephone calls on my behalf) and I eventually sent Felik running off to stand in the Queue for train tickets. Meanwhile I found a chemist who said that he had ordered some Pediatric Hepatitis B and was willing to sell me a double dose when the order arrived ‘next week’. I would still have to find a doctor to administer it though.

Felik said that the ‘orderly’ queue erupted as soon as the ticket office opened (what’s new?!) but that he eventually managed to buy us our first class tickets. We had inspected the economy carriages before because faranjis are allowed certain privileges like getting onto the platform for this task, although the locals had been held firmly outside the main building. There had been no sign of the first class carriage/engine, but the wood-slatted benches did not appeal for an overnight trip and I had decided to splash out on the equivalent of 5 pounds for a 500km ride.

At about 3pm we surged onto the platform and eventually our carriage arrived. It had to be coupled to the rest of the now-heaving second-class carriages. This involved repeated shunting backwards and forwards for the heavy coupling devices to finally connect. But the moving carriage did not stop any of us from claiming first-on-the-steps positions and with a mass of ‘affluent’ Ethiopians we pushed and shoved our way onto the nearest seats. Heaven! They are upholstered and in pretty good condition with some, like the ones we claimed, having working fold-up tables attached to the seat in front. Luxury! We were next to a window and I was happy. We even left only a few minutes late.

Addis is a reasonably large city, but one would not expect a train to take 1 hour to get out of town. Not if you are in Africa! There are no such things as barriers across roads or fences to hold off the wandering animals. Our train slowly crossed roads with its hooter blasting all the time whilst animals and people stepped off the line to just continue life as soon as the train had passed. Occasionally the train would lurch from side to side and one wondered about the stability of the tracks. I was amused by the fact that the train actually created dust clouds as it passed the ground roads where dust had settled for the last 48 hours. The many makeshift shacks and plastic covers in which people live are right up to the rails and wherever it is possible, the earth has been cleared for some planting of maize or greens. The people really do use every inch of soil for food production although I take great delight in seeing small patches of flowers every now and then. Dogs ran along the side of the train, children waved and goats and chickens ignored us. All very familiar.

The countryside for the next few hours was pretty nondescript although it was very pleasant to see the sun setting over far-away hills and the tiny crescent moon eventually make its mark between drifting clouds.

Unlike in most of Africa, the Ethiopians are not great food-sellers and would quite happily ignore a train or bus of potential customers. I had expected to find food other that a few packets of biscuits being offered us. So by the time midnight and a shortish stop arrived, Felik and I were pretty hungry. We pounced on a lady selling small samosas and sweet tea out of a flask. It made sleeping much easier.

We often briefly stopped at small towns, but as there was never a sign to indicate the name of the place, all was confusion. Best just to try and get comfortable and get some sleep. And the next morning, only an hour later than expected, we emerged into the streets of Dire Dawa.

This town was specially created to serve the new railway because the original objective, Harar, was too difficult to connect through the mountains. What a delight to watch life for the day take off as we walked through broad, tree-lined streets which had been swept clean. We sat on the pavement where a lady sold fresh doughnuts and coffee from a flask and watched the children arrive for school across the road and play in the street before the gates opened. Playing is the same the world over and I felt as though I too was skipping to a rope being swung around little jumping girls.

We walked in the pleasantly empty streets towards the Commonwealth War Graves Cemetery. It was early, but a man miraculously appeared with a key to the padlocked chain across the gates and let us in. One knows what to see at these cemeteries and the graves are all of the same design, but the inscriptions are always so poignant and one can evoke such emotions though this wandering amongst them. It is a very important reminder of the losses the East African troops sustained on that epic and eventually successful campaign against the Italian Occupiers in 1941. The journey of the 1700 miles’ push northwards is the longest distance in a war campaign ever in history.

Dire Dawa is not supposed to offer anything exciting, but a cool stop in an outdoor café, wanderings amongst the market stallholders and then a gari (horse-drawn vehicle) ride to a cave further up town gave us a very pleasant introduction to life in the semi-desert of the Harar countryside.

Busses for Harar, our actual destination, left every 10 minutes or so and we watched them fill up and depart without anxiety as we indulged in lunch at the bus station. The 1-hour journey though the mountains was just a joy. Although I looked for coffee, as the best is supposed to come from here, all one could see was millet or sorghum fields and cultivated plots of the small chat bushes which have supplanted those pungent coffee-producing trees. And then we arrived at the gates of Harar!

City of dreams… the 4th most holy of Muslim cities (after Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem)…. the most densely filled walled city of 100 mosques! My image was of a skyline of minarets like Fez in Morocco. Or of great walls with romantic gates where one could walk upon them and look down on the city. Well, disillusion can create its own pleasure: The walls are badly patched and irregular thin but high structures with no dramatic effect. Life on both sides of them does not define obvious differences. There is as much Muslim as Orthodox activity and there are hardly any minarets as most of the many mosques are within homes. The people are no longer dressed in the very vibrant colours of yesteryear and jeans and tee-shirts are everywhere.

However, what does distinguish this city above all others because of its large Muslim population, is the consumption of chat. This shrub has a smallish green leaf. If you pluck the leaves and assiduously chew them until your mouth has absorbed the juices and a ball of chaff is formed and eventually spat out, you might become ‘high’ and feel euphoric and happy and wide-awake and a few hours later a bit depressed and in need of beer to soften the effects of sleeplessness. After years of such mastication, you can become addicted and end up only wanting to chew the leaves. Most of this activity takes place on the sides of the roads. Not always a pleasant thing to observe, but on the whole totally tolerated as part of Harar life. Chat has become a major export from Ethiopia to the neighbouring Muslim countries and as it has to be masticated when fresh and soft, the gathering and export of these branches of leaves has to be highly sophisticated. I saw none of this activity.

So we entered and walked the streets and with only our small rucsacs, there was no need for settling into a hotel too soon. In the main square we bumped into Ali, whom Felik knows from previous walks with me. Ali has stayed in the Taitu whenever he was in Addis and we became good companions. He had just met his friend Nick, who had been on the train with us but whom I had ignored as a young backpacker who certainly did not want to talk to an old lady. However, the two had met in Uganda and were now renewing their friendship after various adventures and they generously included us in the conversation. The four of us walked about together and then agreed to meet for a visit to the Hyena Man and supper.

Time to get a place to sleep for the night. The two young men were staying in hotels outside the city walls but I decided that it would be more atmospheric to be inside. We inspected one old building, but the rooms were just too dark and although the Ethiopians happily sleep in small, windowless rooms, I would not do so by choice. Our next hotel was full of rickety wooden stairs which one expected to collapse with the balcony at any moment. We were shown a set of two rooms off a small corridor. The one room was the usual windowless dark space and on the other side of the wooden division between them, was a room with a large window overlooking the rooftops of the city. Guess who chose what room! I could throw open the window and really soak in the atmosphere and sounds. OK, one does not choose a room costing the equivalent of one pound for its cleanliness or facilities, but the woman gave me clean sheets (I had brought soap and never use a towel anyway) and a potty under the bed as well as a jug of water with a basin. In Ethiopia it is unknown to clean anything but the floor on which dirt falls. The fact that walls may be very dirty (and I shall not comment on the ones in my room) or that a windowsill may be dusty, simply does not enter their consciousness. In Addis I have tried to show my cleaning woman how to wipe down walls, but, despite demonstrations, walls, doors, the areas around light switches and door handles or anywhere behind a door is resolutely ignored. I was happy with our choice.

We went to view a Tourist attraction but the woman in charge maintained that it was too late to sell us a ticket to just look through the door into a reproduction of a traditional Muslim home. I thought her a bit unaccommodating for tourists as this was the ‘Cultural Centre’ of Harar.

Never mind! A few beers always make one forget these unpleasantries and it was fun to go in the dark with a very expensive ‘guide’ the boys had picked up to take us the few meters outside the city wall to where the Hyena Man lives. This is big ‘exploit the tourist’ time! As Harar is not a city with great evening entertainment (the local ‘picture house’ was showing 3 different USA film DVDs that day in its tiny, airless ‘sports hall’), the obvious thing to do is to go and see the famous Hyena Man. To have to pay a hefty sum to watch him feed pieces of meat to various hyenas can be very boring. Fortunately Nick had just spent over 4 years amongst them in Botswana and he knew how to respect these animals which are regarded as the second most dangerous predator in Africa. To tourists without knowledge, it can be non-impressive, and to see how they happily fed the animals which they could easily compare to dogs, made Nick very nervous. But even we finally succumbed to their non-interest in humans and posed for the obligatory photograph. Nick was an excellent guide though and we learnt a lot about the animals from him. The poor tourists who joined us with their guides only stood mutely watching and then posing with a stick with a piece of meat draped over it whilst the hyena took a gulp. The Hyena Man occasionally called a name (as non-pet-owners, the Ethiopians think this is fantastic…an animal that responds to a name!) and one of the hyenas would respond. But now the pack is too large for individual naming. There were about 20 of us tourists and the tourist season has just started. At 30 Birr each, the Hyena Man made at least 600 Birr. When one thinks that a senior school teacher earns between 600-800-Birr per month after years of study, the mind boggles. The following night we went down the road from the boys’ hotel on the other side of town and watched another pack of hyenas which occupy the adjacent open space where people learn to drive cars and football is played. There is a very large ditch and the town rubbish is dumped there every night. So, guess what? One has a wonderful ringside seat watching the hyenas which quite happily walk about amongst people and where there are even a lot of street-sleepers who could be tasty morsels for the hyenas if necessary. Apparently they are habituated enough to walk about in the streets keeping the place clean. This was a far better spectacle than the previous night’s bored performance.

Whilst sitting on my bed and soaking my feet in the basin of water the next day, I saw the tell-tale evidence to prove that we were in a brothel: Two small peep-holes had been drilled through the partition between our rooms. I had fallen asleep instantly despite being above the very noisy bar below my room, but Felik had heard knockings on the front door all night. It reminded me of the time in the 1960s when I stayed in a brothel in Spain. The same small holes in the wall….. So just remember to be vigilant when you occupy such premises!

After a very long walk the next morning, because the Ethiopians do not understand how to give directions or tell one about short-cuts (‘take a taxi’ is the usual response to any directional query), Felik and I arrived at the Harar Brewery which was set up with the assistance of the Czechoslovak Govt. in 1984, 10 years after the Derg forced Communism onto the country. They produce bottled, draught and malt beers and it is exported all over the world. A worthwhile visit if only to experience a very modern plant with spotlessly clean and sterile facilities. However, I could not help but smile when I saw our images in starched cotton coats and fancy hats walking up the stairs and holding onto the filthiest handrail one could imagine. Once again the Ethiopian non-awareness of dirt has triumphed! The staff recreation hall/bar/restaurant has the largest TV screen I have ever seen and seems to remain on the sports channel all day.

We returned via the narrow inner streets and alleys of inner Harar, joined the boys for lunch and then continued our good tourist requirements by visiting ‘Rambo House’… the beautifully restored house built in 1908 (Rimbaud died in 1891) which is used as a cultural centre and museum about the life of this French poet who lived and traded for many years in Harar. All good tourist stuff, but it made us late again for the other cultural visit which had been aborted the previous day. We arrived before 4.35pm and were delayed on the steps by a photographic session of the future bride and all her attendants in traditional dress. It was the most colourful visual image imaginable! The bride had gold all over her body and I dare not imagine the cost of the very elaborate hand jewelry which encased the arm, wrist and fingers of her hands. These maidens were from a local tribe of isolated merchants who had become very rich and their wonderful clothes reflected this. We were transfixed, so by the time it was 4.40pm and I asked to buy an entrance ticket to see the traditional Muslim house from the open door, the lady once again refused to admit us. I just stood at the door and looked in, she came and closed it in front of me and I had had my money’s worth and more for nothing. I just do not understand this attitude, but, similarly, the guide in Rambo’s House, when asked what one can see outside the town, mentioned a valley. So I asked him ‘what does one go and see in this valley’ and he said he cannot tell me. I must hire a Guide for that. This refusal to share knowledge is very alien to me. I have been telling the Tourist Guide students to always share their knowledge because they never know when they might not need to ask for some another day.

For the experience of enjoying the setting sun in a Muslim cemetery, we arranged to meet the boys outside the wall. While walking down the road, I bought a small heap of cherry tomatoes to munch. I had forgotten that the Ethiopians do not eat raw tomatoes, so could not share with Felik. Melkam in the office had to be taught how to make a tomato salad. Similarly, the most delicious watercress grows wild all over Addis in the large ditches by the side of the roads. This can be a great source of vitamin C, but their food never includes it and even green decoration on a plate is not known. A group of young girls surrounded us and were fascinated by my diet. So I brought out a lipstick and they giggled even more as each one offered her lips to me. Getting them to draw the lips tightly over their teeth for the application was impossible. This action had never been undertaken by them. I then gave them the lipstick with which to practice on each other. Within a few strokes it was broken off. Silly of me to think that they would understand the action. I mention this only because I get very frustrated when the locals cannot understand what I am asking. Why should they? I am seeing the world from my perspective and should have more patience understanding.

The following morning the watchman woke us at 4.30am and we rushed out to join Ali for the return bus to Addis. He was already there on the back seat, keeping us two places. I had decided to return by bus during the daytime in order to see some of the Awash National Park which we were supposed to traverse. That scenery in itself was unfortunately not spectacular and one really has to go into the park to see the African Rift Valley. So a cramped 13 hour journey was alleviated by chewing chat which some students offered us. The effect was mild as I did not chew too much (boring and not very tasty), but I was nevertheless amused by the result. We had all been struggling over a Su-doku puzzle and the chat-effect was that I would have great flashes of insight with the most obvious answer waiting to be recorded. And then Felik, who was not chewing, would mildly point out that the answer I had so dramatically presented was pure rubbish. Students chew chat to help them stay awake and study. Hmmmm…

A few days later in the Sheraton Hotel I looked at a coffee-table book on Harar. It was large and full of exquisite photographs of a city I did not recognize. How one can miss so much is disturbing. So I shall have to return……