Discover Your Yoga

Before the spring weather leaves us entirely and the full heat and humidity of summer is upon us, I wanted to pull together a post for a Springtime yoga sequence.

WHY A SPRING PRACTICE?

Instinctively we know that our bodies are influenced by our environment, and that individual bodies carry unique dispositions that respond differently to external factors. Heat and humidity can feel amazing to some bodies, and agitating and uncomfortable to others. Cold weather can make us feel slow and stiff, but it can also feel invigorating or balancing to some.

In the spring, particularly in the Northeastern U.S., the static cold of winter shifts as temperatures warm. As snow mounds melt, lakes and rivers recharge and fields reanimate with greenery. The dynamic season of rainstorms, buds and blooms can transform landscapes overnight and as such, growth and expansion are key qualities of this time.

Our yoga practice can help balance out and channel spring’s energy if we know how to work with it, helping us to wake up from our winter hibernation, release stuck energy, and detoxify.

MERIDIANS

We can employ Eastern perspectives of the body, particularly that of Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM), to create a practice well-suited to spring. Much like ayurveda, the sister science of yoga, TCM utilizes the idea of qi (chi) as an essential lifeforce in the body. It’s what yogis call prana. Qi, along with other fluids like blood, sweat, lymphatic fluid are subject to imbalances (excess or deficiency) and can be influenced by emotions, environmental conditions, diet, and activity.

TCM maps the body out along meridians, or channels, that move qi around and correspond to major organ systems, bodily functions and emotions. Meridians are what acupuncture practitioners attempt to influence with needles (and also what acupressure points draw from) in order to get these channels unstuck so that energy can move freely through the body. While these concepts can feel inaccessible and unfamiliar, slowly, Western medicine is uncovering more about fascia (our connective tissue) and even identifying “new” organs that may help bridge Eastern and Western understandings of the body. It is my belief that this research will help us understand how a bunch of little needles strategically placed on our skin can possibly influence our internal systems so deeply. But, I digress.

LIVER & GALLBLADDER

Springtime is associated with the wood element in TCM (think growth and expansion), which corresponds to the liver (yin organ) and gallbladder (yang organ) meridians. In TCM, the liver rules the flow of qi through the body and also stores, filters, detoxifies and tonifies the blood.

Wood energy is about the execution of goals, leadership, competition, upward, forward movement and unencumbered movement, and deriving strength from flexibility. Those with liver imbalance can be angry and overly-assertive, aggressive or judgemental. There can be a rigidness and workaholic-aspect to those with too much of this energy. Type-A personalities often exhibit these traits, no doubt exacerbated by our work-centric culture in a way that spurs imbalance. Spring provides a great opportunity to shed old energy, detox, and bring some ease into life with our yoga practice.

SPRING TIME YOGA FLOW

This spring, I have enjoyed playing with wood energy themes in my practice, and have been introducing them into my Intermediate class on Monday evenings, where we have more time to explore different yoga modalities.

A spring-inspired sequence is included below. Take part or all of it to bring some seasonality into your practice. I also encourage you to check out this sequence created by Tiffany Cruikshank at Yoga Medicine, where I am completing my 500-hour teacher training. There’s lots of good stuff on the Yoga Medicine site to advance your practice or experiment with something new.

Meditation

Seated on a block or cushion with your eyes closed, visualize your breath moving through your torso, and throughout your body. Cultivate a full, but easy breath without holding at the top or bottom of the breath cycle. Identify an intention for your time on the mat.

Myofasical release

Use tennis balls:

• Glut Med
• Glut Min
• TFL
• Serratus anterior
• Upper trapezius
• Adductors

Sequence

Integration

• Banana-asana – laying on your back, palpate your hip bones (ASIS). Try to keep them level as you swing your ankles and shoulders to one side. Option to cross one ankle over the other and bind your arms overhead. Breath freely into side body.
• Hug knees in, rock gentle side to side to massage low back. Rock n’roll to table top
• Cat/Cow: noticing spine articulation with intention to bring freedom and movement to the joints
• Table Top taps: keep pelvis stable (ASIS points level):
  • Inhale as you extend your right foot back (bird-dog)
  • Pivot toes toward the ground, and exhale as you slowly tap your right foot to the right, activating your outer hip.
  • Inhale the leg back and exhale to step the foot between your palms. Inhale leg back to bird-dog and repeat 2x, moving fully with your breath.
  • Repeat on left side.
• Lift to downward dog, walk slowly forward to rag doll

Sun Salutations

• Walking Sun Salutation A: encourages space & growth through side body
  • From downward dog, lift right leg on the inhale
  • Exhale as you step right leg forward and tap back knee down.
  • Inhale, Lift arms overhead
  • Exhale to forward fold at top of mat
  • Inhale halfway / exhale fold
  • Inhale arms up to standing
  • Exhale fold / Lift halfway on inhale
  • Exhale stepping right leg back and tap knee, Inhale lift arms
  • Downward dog and breathe out
  • Inhale forward to plank, exhale to chaturanga
  • Repeat with left leg
• Sun Salutation B with crescent lunge on inhale, high twist on exhale, reverse high twist on inhale, warrior 2 to opposite wall on exhale, reverse on inhale, exhale vinyasa (open up spiral line and move freely)
• Child’s pose, with thread-the-kneedle, optional bind

Flow

• Take this sequence through a flow, with one breath, one movement. Work on moving the body freely through these big shapes that move the body in opposing directions and help open the lateral body: Crescent lunge (inhale) – airplane/dekasana (exhale) – 5-pointed star (inhale) – opposite extended side lunge (exhale) – reverse warrior (inhale) – half moon tease (exhale) – reverse warrior (inhale) – windmill to easy twist (exhale) – top arm backstroke (inhale) – downdog (exhale) (Repeat opposite side)

Balance Postures

• Vashi flosses/Vashi-vinyasa: High plank – rotate heels to left for vashistasana. Bend top knee and place foot in front of body, with toes pointing perpendicular to body. Flow: lower hips on the inhale, lift hips on exhale with arm extending overhead.
• Lizard lunge, optional bind
• Shift back to runner’s lunge, slowly shift into standing split, keeping the hips square and lighting up both gluts and the outer hip of the standing leg. Step to forward fold.
• Utkatasana twist – padangustasana  (repeat entire sequence on other side)

Walking balance sequence:

• Dancer (standing on right leg) At back of mat, step right foot forward and come into dancer for several breaths.
• As you shift out of dancer step your left foot forward and shift into Eagle pose standing on the left leg (right leg over the left, right arm under the left).
• Unwind out of eagle and step right foot forward, balancing into Tree pose (standing on right leg)
• Forward fold — vinyasa Repeat opposite side

Floor

• Bridge / Wheel with block squeezed between thighs (adductor engagement)
• Gomukasana –> seated twist
• Supine Figure 4 –> falling figure 4
• Viparita karani
• Savasana

*Apologies to the faithful readers of this blog! I’ve had a hard time committing to writing since returning to the states, but I want to finish chronicling my time abroad before my memory fails me.

After Zanzibar, my travels took on a decidedly eastern flavor. As in: keffir lime, lemongrass, galanga, coconut milk and so on. Following a long connection through Dubai and a brief recharge in Bangkok, I flew to Siem Reap to spend five days exploring the crowning jewel of Cambodia: Angkor Wat. But, I found the lovely little city that serves as its gateway just as enchanting.

Siem Reap

If you want to explore the various temple compounds of Angkor, you stay in Siem Reap. I had arranged for a pick up at the Siem Reap airport from my guesthouse, and, straddled with luggage, was a bit skeptical of what I’m calling the “moto-chariot” that pulled up in front of me. As it turned out, moto-chariot performed beautifully. With a warm breeze winding through my hair, I took in Siem Reap’s scenery and breathed in the calm of solitude.

My abode, Seven Candles Guesthouse, offered immediate insight into the soul of the Cambodian people, most of whom still bear the psychological and physical scars of the Khmer Rouge and its atrocities, as well as civil war. The owner Ponheary Ly and her family are natives of Siem Reap who survived the killing fields of the Khmer Rouge. Today, Ponheary is a “CNN Hero” and World of Children Award Winner whose belief that education is the key to overcoming the cycle of poverty fed by Cambodia’s violent past drove her to found the The Ponheary Ly Foundation. The guesthouse helps support the foundation, and brought a real familial and homey touch to my stay in Siem Reap.

In general, I found Siem Reap to be a relaxed and pleasant town, although it’s one that is being forced to grow quickly from the pressures of tourism. Here are a few of my favorite things about Siem Reap:

• The unapologetic and ubiquitous use of hammocks. At every tourist attraction, various restaurants, and generally just everywhere, there are hammocks. Where you see them in large numbers, they are likely for the many tuk-tuk drivers who wait it out while their customers enjoy a given attraction, but people of all kinds were using them. Good on ya, Siem Reap

• Monks. Brilliant turmeric-colored draping covers the monks who live, pray, drink coffee, talk on cell phones, and ride in vehicles throughout Siem Reap and the temples nearby. Much like the Maasai men and women who dot the hills and towns of Tanzania, I couldn’t help but feel a little thrill in my stomach when I would see these monks going about their day-to-day lives. It was another flavor that gave my time here its deep sense of place and wonder.

• Ammo, a little jewelry shop situated very close to my guesthouse, which was birthed out of a common Cambodian practice of re-purposing bullets into a base metal for jewelry. The bullets that Ammo uses today are luckily not drawn from bloodshed, but stand as a symbol for Cambodia’s troubled past. Local jewelry-makers learn their craft and get to create their own designs as part of this social enterprise.

 

• Kandal Village is the hip, creative and growing corner of Siem Reap that features restaurants, cafes, artisan stores and galleries. While I enjoyed all my time dining and perusing its shops, the highlight for me was an afternoon at Frangipani Spa. While you can get dirt-cheap massages in both Cambodia and Thailand, I enjoyed the splurge on my “Four Hands Massage,” which was an hour massage with TWO massage therapists, all for $60. Divine.

• Artisans Angkor began in the 1990s as an educational project sponsored by the Cambodian government, mostly as an art & cultural vocational school for rural Cambodians. Within a decade, the program drew additional support from the European Union and is now a full-fledged workplace training program for craftsmen engaged in Khmer cultural arts like ornamental sculpture, gilding, silk painting, silk-making, lacquering, and wood and stone carving. Different workshop rooms are guided by instructors, with notable orders from around the world for their goods being tracked and fulfilled on big whiteboards. These artisans take pride in their impeccable work, which is displayed not only in the compound’s impressive show room and store, but in various airports in the country and shops around the world.

 

Temple Mania

Of course, I spent a few days exploring the many temples that hold the history of the once-mighty Khmer empire. Tourists generally spend 2-3 days exploring the various temples. It’s hard to appreciate how vast these areas are until you’re there, but the map below gives some sense of the scope in comparison to Siem Reap itself.

Greeted by my guide, Yim, we began our moto-chariot journey through these many complexes. As it turns out, Yim was a part of the film crew for Angelina Jolie’s film First They Came for My Father, as both a translator and later camera crew. We talked a bit about her devotion to the Cambodian people.

“Angie’s great,” Yim beamed, as he reflected on his time on set of the film dedicated to survivors of the Khmer Rouge.

Our conversation meandered to cover the impact of tourism on the infrastructure and cultural fabric of Siem Reap, Cambodia’s still-wrought political landscape, and some of Yim’s aspirations for he and his family. As we pulled into the official grounds of the Angkor sites, a deeply forested landscape helped cool down the oppressive heat and humidity just enough to prevent me from completely sweating through all of my clothes. But I got pretty darn close.

Below are some of the highlights of the temple tour, but there really is no better way to appreciate this World Heritage Site than to visit it yourselves. Please add it to your bucket list.

Banteay Sray

Banteay Sray is noteworthy as one of the oldest temples in the Angkor region (dating to the 10th century) and is popular because of its intricate carvings that have withstood the test of time. A temple originally dedicated to the Hindu god, Shiva, it lies about 30 kilometers north of Siem Reap, but is worth the moto-chariot ride.

Ta Prohm

Ta Prohm became globally recognized from the Tomb Raider movies, but its mesmerizing stone-and-tree-roots tapestries make it a worthy stop on the temple route regardless of its fame. Built by Buddhist King Jayavarman VII, or “Jay 7” as Yim would tell me, Ta Prohm was originally a Buddhist temple and university.

Today, it’s super fun to climb around. One of the security guards gave me a “secret” tour to see the guardian gods/goddesses of the temple, tucked away in various corners of the temple that have since crumbled from the force of tree roots. Hence, there was a good bit of scrambling up and down rock ruins at this stop. Not advised or even accepted for most tourists, it was an unexpected perk of being a solo traveler.

Bayon: “The one with the faces!”

As Yim would point out to me, one of the ways you can distinguish Buddhist temples from Hindu temples in the Angkor region is by whether or not they are elevated. Tall temples with many steps and great height are generally Hindu, and those that are more flat are generally Buddhist. Bayon is another creation of Jay 7, a Buddhist king, and there is some debate about who the many faces of Bayon and the walled gates of Angkor Thom, the palace compound that Bayon sits within, represent. Are they Buddhas? Are they representations of the king himself? We don’t know.

There are actually both Buddhist and Hindu aspects to Bayon, since it underwent revisions under Hindu rule. As in other temples, you could see this by the erasure of buddha faces or removal of buddha heads on various statues.

Angkor Wat

Ah, Angkor Wat. The world’s largest religious monument that stretches over 400 acres. My time here probably wouldn’t have been enjoyable had Yim not figured out how to beat the droves of Chinese tourists who would flood the compound as we were leaving. There was literally no wait for me to reach all corners of this temple, including the very steep ascent to the temple-mountain at the center of the complex, where it is not unusual to have to wait an hour or so to climb. Good thing, because there’s a lot to see.

Built by Suryavarman II in the 12th century, Angkor Wat was originally a Hindu temple devoted to Vishnu, but became a Buddhist temple later that century. It is encased by a giant moat and an outer wall with distinct entrances for commoners, special guests and dignitaries and royalty. The entire complex includes a library, galleries upon galleries, a large reflecting pond with lotus flowers and lily pads, and vasts reliefs and scripts that tell the story of its structures.

Yim made sure I saved Angkor Wat for last, and after our substantial time there, I refueled with some coconut water, fresh from a giant coconut, and returned into the heart of Siem Reap to ride out another peaceful day in this special place before I would move on to Chiang Mai, Thailand.

I spent a little time reflecting on the lotus flower, which I had never seen before in person. Yogis talk about the beauty of the lotus flower arising out of the muddy waters and it seems an apt symbol for the resilient spirit of Cambodia. I hope to return there, since I only skimmed the surface of a country filled with beautiful people who have endured the very worst of humanity and who continue to heal and rebuild.

The Doors of Stone Town

We woke up at a painful 4:30 am to prepare for our drive to Dar es Salaam, aiming to beat its notorious traffic. Most of us slept for the first few hours on the road. When we awoke, the Usambara Mountains had given way to flatter and hotter land. Like, really hot. It made for a sweaty last day on the beast.

As we neared the coast, the towns along the road were distinctly Muslim, with mosques dotting the landscape and attire shifting to include hijabs and the like. Eventually our pace slowed down as we entered greater Dar es Salaam, but we made it to our beachside campground in record time, according to Victor, at around 3pm.

Dinner that evening was bittersweet for those of us ending our Intrepid trip in Zanzibar. It meant we had to say goodbye to Boniface and Emmanuel. Big hugs and big tips all around.

The next morning, we caught an early ferry for the two-hour ride to Zanzibar. The tide was easy that day (apparently the return trip is notoriously choppy) and were were greeted by a giant “KARIBOU ZANZIBAR” sign as we approached the harbor. Moving through the small Immigration line for the “Revolutionary Government of Zanzibar,” you begin to sense the island’s colorful history.

But there’s no better illustration of this than the unique doors of Stone Town.

A keen eye may discern the influence of Arab, Swahili and Indian cultures throughout Zanzibar’s capital city, although you really don’t need one to appreciate the unique flavor of this town. Studded doors, carved doors, blue doors, big doors, and almost exclusively wooden doors, are all set against white (or formally-white) plaster and usher you into the various stores, restaurants, and hotels. It’s a wonder Dr. Seuss never wrote a childrens’ book about these doors; just tooling around the winding streets of Stone Town to view them would offer a great experience — this, even despite the worst humidity I have ever experienced in my whole life.

One fun discovery was Mercury House, just a few meters from our rooms at the Shangani Hotel, a reminder that beloved Queen frontman Freddie Mercury was born in Stone Town in what was then the Sultanate of Zanzibar. The flat where he and his parents lived during his first several years of life rests in a fairly humble several-story building, which you can view for free. It’s not that much to see, really, but it’s a clear point of pride for the island and was appreciated by myself and the Aussies (I guess they have some redeeming qualities).

A few new members of the Intrepid tour that would continue on to Victoria Falls and Cape Town joined us in Stone Town, including an American named Minaxi, from Texas! I wish her all the luck and fortitude in the world as she takes my place as the lone American among the Aussies.

A group of us also went to dinner at an Indian restaurant, which was really good, where we helped Carol celebrate her birthday! Steve, of course, was bummed that it didn’t have pizza available 😉

Tangawizi Spice Farm

The next day, we took a tour of Tangawizi Spice Farm, off of Bububu road which sounds just as it looks, and is so named for the fact that an old railway used to run along it, whose trains used to make the sound “boo…boo…boo…”

Despite the unbelievable humidity and a brief monsoon, I really enjoyed our time there. It was great to see spices familiar and exotic in their full form — the fern-like leaves of the tamarind tree, the shoots that provide cardamom, or the vines that wrap around trees to produce pepper. They certainly make it a bit touristy — staff make intricate jewelry, crowns and ties out of the different flora, and one staff climbs up a palm tree singing a beautiful song. A little gimmicky, but a treat for ag nerds like myself.

The next day, we drove up to Kendwa on the northern coast of Zanzibar. This would be the very last leg of our trip as a group. The coast was breathtakingly gorgeous. In addition to beach time in the warm Indian Ocean waters, a group of us took advantage of the opportunity to go snorkeling and view some of the coral systems off neighboring islands. This was my first time snorkeling, but for veterans in our group, they assured me that this was some of the best coral viewing they’d ever enjoyed. So, I’ll consider myself lucky, despite my sunburnt backside. My skin has only recently stopped peeling.

So long, Africa!

Eventually, our time in Kendwa was up and we said our goodbyes to each other. I got to enjoy a few more days on Zanzibar, meeting up with some old college buddies: Keith and Rachel Hoffman. They live on an unbelievably gorgeous strip of the coast just barely north of Stone Town, which boasted some of the most gorgeous sunsets I’ve ever seen in my life.

Before completely becoming a bum that weekend, I took a quick day trip to Changuu, also known as Prison Island. Changuu’s main infrastructure — a prison — was established by the British but ended up only being used as a quarantine station for a brief period of time. Today, the main attraction is a growing group of giant tortoises that were gifted from the Seychelles, and a group of peacocks that live among them. I enjoyed a few minutes at the sanctuary before mobs of tourists flooded the island.

The real joy of the day was the 20-minute boat ride to and from the island. While most boats were named something funny or exotic (the Hakuna Matata, the Lovely Lady), mine was simply named Barbara. Thank you Barbara, for a lovely, leisurely ride.

The remainder of the weekend was spent being lazy with Keith and Rachel. I mean…I was really lazy. It felt like all the excitement and activity of the preceding month had finally caught up with me. I managed to make it outside for a meal and a swim in the mangrove waters that sat outside Keith & Rachel’s home. Keith, for what it’s worth, can cut up a mean pineapple! Tufts people: go visit them!

It was a bittersweet departure from Africa. The first month of my sabbatical delivered exciting, life-affirming connections, views and experiences. It was the type of travel that left me hungry for more, with every intention of returning to explore the continent more. As my plane meandered from Zanzibar, up along the East African coast and across the Gulf of Aden — views I never thought I’d see in my life — I felt fully intoxicated with the freedom of the road, and looking forward to the next month in southeast Asia.

Don’t Stop Me Now

It feels imperative to have a song in honor of Zanzibar’s late, great native son, Freddie Mercury:

And Wooden Ships by Crosby, Stills & Nash, which was buzzing in my head while I was floating on Barbara. And because my boat guide and I basically communicated like this:

“If you smile at me, I will understand
‘Cause that is something
Everybody everywhere does in the same language…

And it’s a fair wind blowin’ warm
Out of the south over my shoulder
Guess I’ll set a course and go…”

~ Wooden Ships, CSN

 

 

Foothills of Kili

From the Serengeti, we spent another night in Mto wa Mbu, reunited with the beast and our driver. A nice tour lead by local guides introduced us to some farms and a local wood carving collective, mostly composed of men who had fled Mozambique during the civil war. To end the tour, we tasted banana beer (yuck) and banana wine (not bad).

The next day we departed to spend some quality time in Arusha. There were a few sites of interest there, including a Maasai museum, a snake museum (no thank you) where you can learn about a bunch of different species of snakes found in the region, and a Maasai women’s collective that sell various handmade goods. Yes please! I got a ton of earrings to bring back to friends and family.

From there, we drove to Marangu, which rests at the foot of Mount Kilimanjaro. Our campsite there actually has a long history of working with the Intrepid Foundation, and prioritizes education work — particularly training programs for teachers and literacy. There’s some interesting history to this work because after Tanzanian independence, there was great resistance to teaching children English. It’s an understandable sentiment, but it had troubling consequences for the country and the economic mobility of Tanzanians. Among other priorities, this program emphasizes English at a young age.

A fairly easy hike in Marangu introduced us to the Chagga tribe, brought us to some additional farming sites of interest and a gorgeous waterfall. Minus the banana trees strewn about, you wouldn’t know this was Africa. Particularly with the number of pine trees in the area, it felt like a hike in the Pacific Northwest. I wish we had more time to explore Kilimanjaro, but that’s an entirely different trip altogether.

The final stop before we headed toward the ocean was the Usambara Mountains. Minus our time in the Serengeti, this was perhaps my favorite few days in Tanzania. First of all, we saw so many chameleons. We also had a fantastic hike to the Irente viewpoint, which was a bit harrowing at first, but really peaceful and lovely. The view allows you to see mountains and plains reaching toward Kenya in one direction and toward the coast in the other.

We ended our time there with a delicious lunch and traditional dance with Sambara/Shambaa men and women. It started out innocently enough, but eventually we were all pulled into the circle and called upon to grind with them. I’m 95% sure this is where twerking comes from. They can get down.

There should be an audio recording of the dance that Steve from our trip will be sharing soon. So be on the lookout for that. I’ll link it here!

Meet the Aussies

Speaking of Steve, now seems as good a time as any to underline one particular problem with this otherwise lovely, interesting trip: the Australians. Before I go on, why don’t we take a moment to introduce you to the crazy crew:

Steve & Ally

Meet Steve. Steve is a young, 23-year-old Australian whipper-snapper who is in a Canberra-based band named Young Monks. He is very opinionated and likes to pick fights about things he knows nothing about — for example, food and agricultural policy. He also likes to whisper things under his breath about how I do or say things “just like an American.”

Other fun facts about Steve:

1. He loves pizza and only wanted to eat pizza the entire time. He literally just sent our group a picture over What’s App of a pizza he’s eating as I type this.
2. Despite his young face and many tattoos, he has the soul and dance moves of a conservative old man.
3. His favorite band is…wait for it…THE EAGLES. Because why wouldn’t I meet the Australian version of my father while I’m on vacation? He would occasionally drop them into a conversation to justify his point of view. For example, “yeah sure, but when you compare them to The Eagles and what they did in [XYZ song]…”

His girlfriend Ally is a perfectly lovely person who I enjoyed hanging out with a lot. Her only flaw is that she loves Steve. That flaw gets slightly neutralized by the fact that she rolls her eyes at him all the time.

Kieran

Meet Kieran. Kieran is 30 and is actually a pretty cool guy, were it not for his love of this “make fun of Americans” nonsense. Kieran’s “uni job” was being a casino dealer, which was made evident during card games played in our down time. He left that storied career to enter financial services and moved to London, leaving him a weird hybrid Aussie-British accent. Several months ago, he quit his job as a financial analyst to go tour the world for a year. After his trip down to Cape Town, he will spend a few months volunteering in Madagascar. Again: cool guy. Unfortunate nationality.

Chelsea

Meet Chelsea. At a wee 20-years-old, Chelsea is pretty mature for her age. I’m sure traveling to Africa with your mother (Carol) has its proper bummers, but she takes it in stride. She reminds me so much of my sister Katja that I couldn’t help but feel a sisterly affection for her. She does have a regrettable habit of picking fights, however (see below) and I worry for her as she completes another month on the road with the other Aussies on her way to Cape Town.  Don’t let them taint you, Chelsea!

Holly

Meet Holly. Holly is 33 and awesome and we are soul sisters. She is a veterinarian for horses. Her job mostly consists of flying around the globe with horses in giant cargo planes. And, I assume, administering care to equine patients. Let’s be honest, I have a great job, but she wins. Unfortunately, she is also Australian.

Tom-arrr-toe Sauce

A quick wiki read on kangaroos, Australia’s national animal, reveals that they travel in mobs — groups of 10 or more kangaroos that live together and provide protection for the weakest of the group. They also fight a lot.

In strikingly similar fashion, the mob of Aussies formed a strange cluster around me during dinner in the Usambara Mountains. Imagine me, innocently eating a delicious spaghetti meal prepared by Emmanuel, twirling my fork around, gearing up for a bite when:

“You know,” Chelsea begins, with a hint of mischief in her eyes, “you Americans have a funny way of saying things.”

“We do?” I respond.

“Yes. You tend to dumb everything down to its most obvious form.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“What do you call it when you ride a horse?” she asks.

“Horseback riding,” I answer. Obviously.

Cue Aussies bursting out laughing.

“Why? What do you call it?”

“Horse riding. You don’t need to be so literal and spell out horse back riding.”

Fair enough. This goes on for quite a while with several examples. Maybe even a full hour. Sometimes they make decent points. Mostly though, it’s complete rubbish. (Sorry, the hood of the car is the hood, not the bonnet.)

“What do you call this?” Steve asks, pointing to the red condiment universally known as ketchup. I respond as such.

“Nooooooooo!” they laugh. “It’s tom-arr-toe sauce.”

“No,” I quip back. “Tomato sauce is tomato sauce. Ketchup…is ketchup.” Of course, my mind is scrambling to pull together justification for the obvious. Ketchup is made with things like sugar and vinegar. It’s served cold and is a condiment. One puts it on burgers and french fries (or, you know, chips). Tomato sauce is made with oil and spices and sometimes meat, and it is served hot, over pasta or in a lasagna or whatever else the Italians intended tomato sauce to be used for.

“I mean ketchup,” Steve scoffs, squeezing ketchup onto his pasta. (gross) “What does ketchup even mean?”

I don’t know how to answer this question. What does the meaning of the word ketchup have anything to do with whether ketchup is ketchup? Still, I spent a little energy explaining the difference.

Steve and Kieran, ever stubborn, were having none of it.

Slowly, the Brits weighed in. They were on my side on this one (although they do call the hood of the car a bonnet. Sigh). Finally the Swiss girls, forgoing neutral status, jumped in. “No, you are wrong,” they say, shaking their heads. “Ketchup is not tomato sauce.”

Thank you, Swiss girls! Only Aussies are stumped by this not-age-old question of the difference between ketchup and tomato sauce.

And then, of course, they go on to talk about how Vegemite is actually delicious and foreigners just make the mistake of putting too much of it on toast. If only they used a little, they would love it.

Ridiculous argument. First of all, it’s just a fact that Vegemite sucks. But more to the point: usually if something is truly delicious, more of it is more delicious. Nutella? Nutella doesn’t get ruined by putting more nutella on something. More makes it better. Peanut butter? Same thing. Butter? Don’t even get me started. There’s no such thing as too much butter.

Hugh Jackman tried to make the same argument on Jimmy Fallon a few years ago. Despite Jimmy and Questlove’s enthusiasm, I find the display just as unconvincing.

Aussiesauce

For this post, I give you Men at Work’s Down Under, because I would like to perpetuate any and all stereotypes about Aussies and will seize any opportunity to make them look ridiculous. I like to imagine I’d be the “strange lady” in this video, who made him nervous (and then rolled her eyes at him).

I will also share Toto’s Africa, because Steve felt it was imperative to play this song — the MOST CLICHE SONG ABOUT AFRICA — and insist on what a great band Toto is. They aren’t (although I do like Rosanna), but this video is so terrible that it’s kinda wonderful, if for no other reason than the fashion.

I know that I must do what’s right
As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti
I seek to cure what’s deep inside
Frightened of this thing that I’ve become [and the fact that I’m Australian*]

~ Toto, Africa   *author’s addition

And sigh…here’s Young Monks performing Jarmin’ in the Dark. Whatever the heck “jarmin'” is…

 

I’m not even sure I need prose for this post. I could simply flood you with a gazillion images and you’d get the idea. However, my site can only take so much data, and there is actually a bit of story to tell.

Ngorongoro Crater

It’s hard to do justice to the Ngorongoro Crater in a single image. Forming from volcanic activity that began over 20 million years ago, the crater spans 100 square miles and earns a spot as one of the distinct geological features found along the Great Rift Valley. Tanzania has a great history of conservation, a credit to its own leadership and the influence of German conservationists who supported the establishment of the greater Ngorongoro Conservation Area — a vast 3,000 square miles. Let’s be grateful for those forward-thinking individuals.

To explore the crater and do our game drives, we abandoned the Intrepid beast for 4×4 safari land cruisers. Departing Mto wa Mbu, we started a notable incline to the ridge of the crater, passing Maasai villages on the way. As we approached the main visitor center, baboons cluttered the side of the road in animated (and, um, amorous) fashion. It doesn’t take much to see something deeply human beneath their monkey business. Imagine, if you will, a male mounting a female, only to have her yell and swat him off of her in frustration, as if to say “Not in front of the kids!”

From the height of the ridge, binoculars offered a better sense of the activity going on in the crater. To be honest, I thought we were in for a boring day. There were a few clusters of activity, but it looked like herds of zebra and wildebeest mostly.

Thank god I was wrong.

There were a few security checkpoints between the main entrance, the top of the crater and then down to the floor. It’s one of the ways that the Tanzanian government has been able to eradicate poachers from the country, although that came at a cost. A giant plaque commemorates the many lives lost to poachers, animals and accidents that happened in the name of conservation.

From a final checkpoint at the ridge, our driver, Immanuel, nicknamed Mr. Serengeti, changed out our roof for better viewing. From there, we took a steep, bumpy trail down.

Not five minutes later there was a female lion walking among a large herd of zebra and wildebeest. She was just a handful of meters away from her next meal, while her lady friends lurked in the bushes nearby. We didn’t get to see them make a kill, but it was clear that every prey animal was aware of their presence. These animals do a fairly transparent dance with each other in their game for survival.

I do not exaggerate when I say the animal viewing was nonstop from there. The sheer density of animals in one space, and the amazing biodiversity found in a few square meters was jaw-dropping. We saw several dozen lions, several thousand zebras and wildabeest, hippos, hyena, Thomson and Grant gazelle, the diminutive dik dik, elephants in the distance, ibis and another gazillion birds of interest, and even a few ever-shy black rhinos. You would occasionally see a bunch of land cruisers parked in a row, which was always a clue that something of interest lay ahead. Usually it was simba (lions), which took our breath away every time. There is just something about lions. They own it.

Must go faster

As we left the crater, the sloping hills that housed a number of twiga (giraffe) yielded to a flattened landscape that extended into a vastness I’ve yet to see in the U.S. We were not yet in Serengeti National Park, but we were clearly close. The wildlife viewing did not stop there, since a massive migration of zebra, wildebeest and gazelles was underway.

I was sitting shotgun now and in Immanuel I found a fellow lead-foot. He loved his land cruiser and worked it like a pro. He also firmly believed that going faster made the ride smoother. Who am I to disagree?

As we neared the Serengeti, again there was a row of land cruisers lined up. A male lion sat mere inches from our vehicle. He was a bit older than the others we’d seen that day, given the black in his mane. As he writhed around on his back playfully, the distance between lions and domestic cats felt eerily close. But someone in a neighboring vehicle waved and made a noise to get his attention and with laser-like speed he flipped over and sustained the most intense stare their way. He didn’t let them out of his sight for what felt like an eternity.

Very quietly, Immanuel inched to me and whispered, “would you please roll up your window a little bit?” I obliged. In a few moments, the lion decided the humans were no threat and went back to grooming himself. We moved on from there at quite a clip.

We made it just a few hundred meters beyond when I smelled something burning, although no one else seemed to agree with me. But my sense of smell is pretty accurate and seconds later, smoke was fuming from near Immanuel’s leg. He stopped the car and pulled us over. Lifting the hood, he couldn’t seem to locate the cause. Though it was comforting to know that Mr. Serengeti was also the mechanic for the tour company, it was unnerving to remember that a male lion was a quick sprint away. I couldn’t get this image out of my head:

Eventually, he identified the culprit — a fuse for the blinkers was literally melting into the car. So, like any good mechanic, he removed the fuse. Who needs a turn signal in the Serengeti anyways?

The Land of Endless Space

With a few hours of daylight left, we arrived at the gate for Serengeti National Park, although we were about 20 minutes ahead of the others in our group, even with our delay. This would keep happening throughout our two days in the park. Immanuel is a speed demon.

Just before the others pulled up, two Maasai kids walked our way, asking for money and candy. I chatted them up for a few seconds when suddenly their eyes grew wide. They crouched down and crawled behind the truck and I followed them, wondering what game they were playing. In a flash they sprinted. As Immanuel informed me, the Maasai are not allowed in Serengeti National Park, and a park ranger had spotted them. The ensuing chase was hilarious.

The word Serengeti is derived from a Maasai word seringit, which literally means the ‘land of endless space.” As we made our way into the park, that space made itself known, although we’d come to appreciate it more later.

We set up camp that evening in the rain, at a unfenced campground in who-knows-what corner of the park. Victor informed us that you wanted to brush your teeth and do your business as soon as possible. If you woke up in the middle of the night, you could only move a few feet from your tent to minimize the chance of an animal encounter.

In fact, the next morning as I walked to the bathroom to brush my teeth, trash was strewn all about the pathway. “What asshole made this mess?” I thought to myself. Hyenas is the answer. I slept through their sounds that night, but the following night I would notice the glow of hyena eyes staring back at me when I flashed my headlamp toward my tent. By the time I was set up to sleep, Holly informed me that a few hyenas were about two feet away from our tent. I could hear their cries, of course, and in my head I knew there was little of interest to them in my tent. But still…

Poa kichizi kama n’dizi

Our mission the next day was to spot a leopard, or chui in Swahili. That takes some patience, as they are shier than the other cats and like to hide in trees. In fact, bigger game was few and far between that day. But, trading in the crater’s density for the vastness of the Serengeti forces an appreciation for less flashy aspects of this special ecosystem. The termite colonies that dot the landscape, for example, are also favorite spots for bees to make honey, and are enjoyed by families of mongoose as well. And there are so many brilliant birds with brilliant songs meandering the trees.

And of course, there is the utter silence and space of the savanna.

In the quieter moments, the five of us — myself, Holly, Immanuel and Chelsea & Carol, an Australian mother-daughter team — had our own fun. Immanuel loved to make the sounds of all the different animals, which had us rolling in laughter, especially when we tried to imitate him. And while Chelsea & Carol were enjoying a hot air balloon ride over the park one morning, Immanuel taught Holly and I the most useful Swahili phrase ever. Basically, a typical exchange between a Tanzanian and a tourist is as follows:

Jambo! (hello!)

Jambo! (hello!)

Mambo? (How are you?)

Mambo poa. (I’m good / cool)

Simple enough. Swahili is a pretty easy language in that words sound exactly like they are spelled out. For myself, it was easy to seal a new word into my brain once I’d heard it.  The script above was a piece of cake. However, if you want to lift some eyebrows, you say poa kichizi kama n’dizi (n’dan ya frij) — I’m cool like a banana (in the fridge). Faces will light up, which is saying something because Tanzanians are pretty sunny people.

We also had a bit of fun between the different land cruisers. As I worked to pick up some Swahili, I learned that the word for rhino is faru. Victor, I told Immanuel, is a faru. He’s just got their presence. Immanuel thought this was hilarious and raced up beside Victor’s vehicle and had me say in Swahili:

“Victor, you are black like a rhino.”

Let it be known that this wasn’t what I meant at all. Victor looked at me perplexed. Then he laughed, scratched his head and countered something back in Swahili. Immanuel was in stitches. I asked him what he said and he quipped:

“He said, ‘You are white…like an egg.'”

We could not stop laughing for the rest of the ride. Although, none of us are convinced that’s actually what Victor said.

So long, Serengeti.

Of course, there were proper excitements in the Serengeti. We managed to spot a leopard and baby that morning, and once we picked up Chelsea and Carol, Immanuel raced back to the tree so that they could enjoy too. That afternoon, while searching for a cheetah in the “pride rock” section of the park, we found a pregnant lioness who walked right in front of our vehicles. We could not get enough of her.

And of course, we ended our time in the Serengeti with some shenanigans, like a land cruiser dance party. There was something so liberating about standing, wind whipping my hair about with the endless meeting of earth and sky in all directions.

As we tracked down their migration, I came to appreciate the wildebeest too, whom I had deemed so boring before. Lined up against the horizon, they stretch on forever. Sure, they are dumb as nails. But they drive the entire ecosystem — moving between Kenya’s Maasai Mara and Tanzania’s Serengeti in search of water or safe breeding ground, depending on the time of year. Zebras and gazelle follow suit, and benefit from each other’s vigilance against predators, but none travel as far as the wildebeest. Migratory predators (hyenas) and territorial ones (lions, leopard, cheetah) bank on their vast numbers for the majority of their meals each year. Their excrement, in turn, keeps this soil fertile, and, I assume, is delicious for all the insects and vermin of the savanna as well. That’s the circle of life, my friends.

Music

As if there could be any other song for this post. It still gives me goosebumps, all these decades after its initial release. I can verify that this video is 100% accurate. I saw lions and baboons embracing all the time.

Tanzanians were pretty into this song, too.

Remember: home is where your rump rests, fair readers.

 

I write this from Bangkok, having left Zanzibar yesterday for a long flight and layover in Dubai. My heart feels a bit heavy today. It could just be the jetlag but more likely, it’s the simple weight of leaving Africa and knowing I left a piece of me there. I have every intention of coming back one day, but the distance felt very real, regardless, as I ate my massaman curry this afternoon.

In cultural anthropology, there is a term called liminality. I think of a liminal space as one of transition — of in-between, topsy-turvy, or being-on-the-brink. Celebrations like Mardi Gras or rites of passage are good examples of customs that provide an essential symbolic space for an individual or cohort’s transformation (male circumcision ceremonies in Africa, certain wedding customs) or where traditional norms are suspended in order to allow for creative expressions and releases that are not allowable in day-to-day life. In all cases, there is a sort of limbo — you are neither this nor that. No longer who you were and not yet what you will become.

A good traveler encounters liminality all the time, stepping out of comfort zones to try new ideas, paces, languages, clothes, foods, and customs. By leaving our normal context, we discover what is indelible and what is malleable. We shed the nonessential and integrate new things.

My transition between Ethiopia and my Kenya-Tanzania trip offered this kind of limbo.

Amesegnalehu, Ethiopia.

Ethiopia ripped my heart open. I wasn’t expecting to fall in love with its people or its landscape. Yet somehow I shifted from being downright terrified to step foot there to feeling at home, with my feet firmly planted on the ground and even considering growing roots.

I spent those last few days in Addis. From Lalibela, Amin picked me up from the airport looking 10 lbs lighter than when I’d left him and a bit too weak to help with luggage, although he tried. I think Sarah is still trying to fatten him up after whatever virus knocked him down, but he recovered just fine over the following days.

I missed the north terribly, but it was rewarding to spend quality time with the family. As a general rule, I’m pretty good with kids. But the last time I’d seen Salim in Boston he was a toddler, and Leila was an infant. Yet these two kiddos embraced me like family from the moment I stepped foot in their house. Now back in Addis, I fit seamlessly into their routine. I picked them up from school one day, where Leila walked around holding my hand. They would both curl up into me as I read them Curious George stories and they would eagerly show off toys or ask me to color with them whenever there was a free moment. I’m told that Leila only wanted to use “Alicia’s bathroom” once I’d left.

 

I had a few adventures in the city. The first was a great massage at the Boston Day Spa, owned by someone who used to live in Boston. It has this beautiful, vast and dimly lit underground space that felt like it could have been in New York City or something. Sarah and I attended a yoga session taught by a Kiwi expat, and also did a home practice one evening. It was interesting to remember what my body felt like not doing a regular yoga practice, particularly in an arid environment like Addis.

I also visited the Ethnographical Museum, whose main exhibit is organized around life stages (from birth to death) as an opportunity to highlight dozens of different ethnic groups and tribes that populate the country (at least 80 different groups call Ethiopia home). That same day, I stopped by the National Museum where Lucy, everyone’s favorite Australopithecus afarensis, lives. Meandering the displays of Australopithecus africanus, Ardipithecus ramidus, and Homo habilis, I felt like I’d stepped off the textbook pages in Stephen Bailey’s Physical Anthropology class at Tufts University. All my nerdy dreams come true!

Speaking of Lucy: when I was in Lalibela walking around in traditional garb, a friend of Abush’s smiled at me and said,”Do you have some Ethiopian blood in you? You look like Lucy!” That joke could play anywhere.

Seriously though, it’s no surprise that so many Ethiopian stores and restaurants have Lucy in their name. Being home to the cradle of humanity is not bad for the brag sheet. Archaeologists and anthropologists are still discovering the remains of humans and our many ancestors throughout Ethiopia’s regions. Slowly, the puzzle pieces of our shared past are being uncovered in a broad tapestry that keeps getting larger and larger. We may never know what we don’t know, but it was fascinating to see which gaps had been filled in, expanded, and reconsidered in the decade since I’d left the classroom. Talk about liminality…

I also got to spend some quality time with Inken, Manuela and Melaku after they returned from a trip in the south of the country. We even pulled out the German tarot card deck one last time to see what the universe had in store for us, while I listened to details about their trip visiting Konso, where the main attraction is really the people and their fascinating culture. At least to we Westerners.

On my last full day in the city, Sarah and Amin hosted a brunch for a pretty great slice of Addis Ababa’s expat community. It was fascinating to hear about all the many paths that led people to this special country.

The next morning, I headed to the airport wondering if I would be leaving Fifi behind forever.

Jambo, Intrepid!

There wasn’t much time for my transition to Intrepid Travel’s Road to Zanzibar, which I’d tacked onto my travels after my friends Rachel & Kieth Hoffman, who live in Zanzibar, suggested I visit them. You know: just a hop, skip and a jump.

Or more like several hundred kilometers of very bumpy roads. I landed in Nairobi on February 4th and that evening had an orientation meeting with the group that would be my travel companions for the next two weeks. I tried to be cheerful and fully present, but my mind kept drifting back to Ethiopia, even the next morning as we started our long drive from Nairobi to Tanzania.

For anyone choosing to do an Intrepid adventure in Africa, you will likely become acquainted with their enormous trucks, which are retrofitted flatbeds specifically designed for the company. They come equipped with lockers, special stalls for the mattresses and tents used at campsites, a ton of storage compartments for our food and fuel, two spare tires and giant windows that stretch to the roof.

In addition to our tour leader Victor, our chef Emmanuel and our driver Boniface, the truck became a character and member of the group in its own right. They are giant vehicles that make it nearly impossible for locals to ignore, particularly in more remote areas.

Looking out the window on the road from Nairobi into Tanzania, what I noticed first was the blood red garb of the Maasai dotting the streets and landscape, particularly as we got closer to the border. How was I here?

Though Kenya lies just south of Ethiopia, the landscape was greener than in Ethiopia and the people a bit feistier or more gregarious. The street and store signs were in English in Nairobi, and then a mixture of English and Swahili as we moved south. Underneath Victor’s Kenyan accent was a hint of something Anglo, and as he discussed some of the sites outside our windows, it was a good reminder that the British had colonized Kenya in what was called British East Africa by the time of World War I, whereas the Germans colonized much of what is now Tanzania, then called German East Africa. That influence makes itself known in obvious and subtle ways in this part of East Africa. It added a flavor that I could not feel in Ethiopia, which was never colonized but merely “occupied” by the Italians under Mussolini for a brief period (hence, the occasional piazza in a city).

When we arrived at the Twiga (Swahili for giraffe) campsite in Mto wa Mbu, which literally translates to mosquito river, we set up our tents. Since we would be heading into the Serengeti during our safari and camping in unfenced sites, our tents were a thick canvas that’s more durable and, I assume, better for protecting our belongings and bodies from any interested animals crossing our paths.

I headed out with our tour leader Victor and my Aussie tent-mate Holly to try to get a local SIM card. We hopped in a tuk-tuk and drove several meters into the heart of town. It was ultimately a failed mission (thanks a lot, T-Mobile), but I distinctly remember goosebumps coming over me as I watched a tall Maasai man chatting up a guy at the local bar out of the corner of my eye. A Maasai woman also came up to us, shook our hands, and tried to sell us some bracelets she’d made. It was really her big dangly earrings that interested me, which I can never resist when I’m traveling. I’d manage to snag a bunch of those later that week.

Emmanuel made us a delicious dinner and I quickly adjusted to the Intrepid meal routine — cleaning our hands with treated water, lining up buffet style for food, communally cleaning and “flapping” our eating-ware dry and then returning everything into their proper bins and helping to reload the truck. I hadn’t yet made strong connections with the group, which included several Australians, a trio of Swiss friends, a Canadian couple, two British couples and myself, the lone American.

In the dark, I grabbed my shower gear and as I left my tent, noticed several fruit bats ping-ponging between the trees above. It made me wonder what else was lurking in the shadows, and my pace quickened. By the time I returned to our tent, there was bat poop all over the canvas. Holly and I later discovered that ours was the only tent to receive this special treatment that evening. Fun times.

Despite missing my Ethiopian friends fiercely, it was clear that Holly and I would get along just fine. We were both the same age, well-traveled and friendly. We liked our fun, but also needed down time. Perfect.

It was a humid, sweaty evening sleeping in that tent, but I was tired after a full day’s drive. The next morning, we met our Safari guides and headed into the Ngorongoro Crater, which I’ll cover in my next post. Get ready for a wild and crazy 4×4 ride that properly kicked me out of my liminal state and into the present, fair readers!

Music

As this is my last post on Ethiopia, I share Teddy Afro’s Mar eske Twauf, from his Ethiopia album released last year, which reached the top of the Billboard World Albums Chart. The piece is a labor of love that captures a historical story — I’ll have to call on Inken or Melaku to explain it more fully. But it is wildly popular in the region. It features Afro’s wife Amleset Muchie, a famous actress in the country, and many of the traditional clothing of the north, as well as some footage of the Simiens.

I’ll also throw in Oscar Isaac and Marcus Mumford’s Fare Thee Well from the Inside Llewyn Davis soundtrack. Until we meet again, Ethiopia.

That evening in Gondar, I got a call from Amin.

“Hello, Alicia,” he said, in the groggiest, weakest voice I’d ever heard.

“Amin, you sound horrible.”

“I got very sick in Nairobi. I collapsed.”

Somehow, he thought he’d rally to meet me in Lalibela, as was our plan, for a long weekend exploring this historic and treasured town in the north. He was wrong. We’re not entirely sure what he came down with. I assume the flu, which had left him so weak and weary that the airline didn’t want to let him on the plane back to Addis. He was even hospitalized for rehydration, where they tested him for malaria (he was negative) and other diseases to be sure.

I demanded he put me on the phone with Sarah, who assured me that she’d seen him in similarly rough a shape before and he’d be okay. So I got on a plane for a short, 25-minute flight from Gondar to Lalibela, preparing to explore the town on my own.

Saint George’s Day

It was a relief to check in to the Maribela Hotel, which offered the lushest accommodations I’d seen thus far (excluding Amin and Sarah’s house, of course). The vast, silent canyon stretching out beyond my room’s patio assured me this weekend was for rest and recovery. I was sorry Amin couldn’t join, but it was pretty fantastic to have the space to myself and enjoy the first real solitude I’d seen in weeks.

The silence didn’t last long. My guide Abush, whom Amin hired, was eager to rush to the town center for the Saint George’s Day religious procession. Figuring one Orthodox Christian festival was as good as the next, I was dragging my feet.

We stopped to purchase a scarf, which I planned to wear in respect at all the churches we’d be visiting. Combined with a little bit of Amharic, I learned from Inken that showing this kind deference to local customs can be the difference between a more shallow tourist experience and an invitation to go deeper and really connect with people.

This was immediately evident. The women loved dressing me up in different scarves and telling me “Konjo!” (beautiful) and slowing down to say “waan hundred fee-fty birr” or whatever the price may be. I purchased two, figuring I’d let Leila, Amin’s daughter, keep one when I was back in Addis. Now draped in a gauzy, white scarf lined with red stripes and gold, we were ready to head out.

The streets were already teeming with people and more importantly, umbrellas of every color. It was a brilliant scene, which included the now-familiar custom of young men dancing in circles and kicking up dust while their herding staffs were raised in the air. A man looked at me, now draped in traditional garb.

“Selam nu!” I said warmly.

His eyes opened wide. “Selam nesh! Dehna nesh? (How are you?)”

“Dehnanegn. Dehna nu?”

He smiled with approval. “You are like family to us in Ethiopia.”

As Abush and I meandered the crowd, its slow march occasionally stopped for ceremonies of bishops lined up, wielding different instruments and marching toward each other. There are 44 different churches in the small town of Lalibela, each with there own style of hat, colors, and other distinguishing elements.

 

More and more people poured in as the procession crept forward, winding around streets and then slowly up a hill. I was doing my best to keep up with Abush, but it was hot and the dress I’d purchased in Bahir Dar felt heavy under the sun. I figured I’d seen enough and told Abush that I wanted to head to the hotel to rest and maybe grab food.

“But you must see. We are going to end at the church and the whole town will be there,” Abush pleaded.

I hoped that I wasn’t outwardly rolling my eyes. “How long will it last?”

“Maybe another 30 minutes.”

I was used to this tactic. In the Simiens, everything was hayaa dehkika – 20 minutes away. Only by walking the path would you see what 20 minutes actually meant. Figuring I could deal with another 30 minutes-ish, I conceded. We walked beyond the crowd to find a good viewing spot. As the terrain turned rocky and more precarious, a modest “World Heritage Site” sign was propped nearby. I suddenly realized where we were.

It was Bete Giorgis – the iconic church of Lalibela – in all its enormous, stony and storied glory resting below the earth’s surface.

The cross-shaped church, which dates to the 12th or 13th century, is carved from volcanic rock in a trench between 25-30 meters deep. King Lalibela built the church as part of his broader efforts to “recreate Jerusalem,” and today it is the most famous of the 11 rock-hewn churches of Lalibela. Saint George, the dragon slayer, is a major saint in Ethiopia and I was, again, very luck to land in Lalibela on the one day a year when the entire town gathers around this historical and architectural gem.

Abush and I found a spot to situate ourselves while we waited for the crowd. It started as a trickle — an occasional hoard of young men dancing, more tourists finding a seat, teenagers climbing onto trees for a good view, or few children sitting precariously close to the edge. Eventually, the entire town and every tourist for miles was sardined under the hot sun. A voice came over a load speaker, and various prayers, prostrations and other customs went forward. Abush assured me — 2 hours later when the ceremony finished — that it was very rare and very lucky to witness this event. This I already knew.

Fifi buys another dress

I didn’t have it in me to do a full church-viewing day after Saint George’s. But I rallied for a morning visit to a vast church complex that revealed not only the diversity of Lalibela’s churches, but also their architectural influence in the world, deep ties to historical events, and even to the geography of Israel (a trench symbolizing the River Jordan, for example).

 

From there, Abush and I walked through the sprawling Saturday market. It was a scene.

 

Of course Fifi bought a dress there, this one lighter and more traditional to Lalibela. The process of getting the dress was pretty hilarious. I selected 3 to choose from, but needed a place to try them on. Abush dragged me to a residential area, which I assumed included his home. But no, he said, we were just finding a family with a room to spare. Dear god, help me.

Eventually we pulled into a home where an old grandmother was smiling sweetly and encouraging me to try on the dresses next to her, where she’d shelter me from others. I put on the first dress, which was a bit big. I walked out of the light-less room and suddenly there were several women and children looking back at me. Abush was not pleased with this dress. “It’s just like ones you can get in America.”

I went back and tried on a purple dress that was more traditional in nature. The grandmother nodded and said, “konjo!” and I walked out and there were even more family members gathered. They asked if I was a celebrity, which was a hilarious thought given the amounts of sweat pouring out of me and dust all over my face.

Abush said I should try the next one. It was teal, with a ridiculous bright green lining. I didn’t like it much. But the grandmother was beside herself, nodding forcefully. I walked out and everyone said yes, this is the dress and I must get it. When in Rome…

They bid me farewell and we walked back to the vendor. He gave me an amazing price of 250 birr. I was quite pleased with my negotiation skills.

The woman who speaks Amharic

In the afternoon I donned my new, breezier dress and had a quiet lunch at Ben Abeba, the most famous Lalibela restaurant due to its canyon view and distinct, Dali-esque architecture. Abush agreed to meet me in a few hours, so I took my time. As I began the short walk back to the hotel, I was swarmed by four girls asking me all sorts of questions. They were delighted I knew some Amharic and immediately invited me for bunna. How lucky: their house was just a few meters away.

Inside, the father, a tailor, was hard at work making a traditional white dress of the north. He didn’t speak a lick of English, and we all had a blast trying to communicate with each other while the mother roasted coffee and the grandmother approvingly looked me over.

I got a call from Abush who was wondering where the heck I was. Time had slipped away. I had one of the girls direct him to us and he was amused to see me sitting there. I had just a bit of coffee, let Abush finish the rest and then we went off for a quick final church visit. But I was beat and probably only spent 45 minutes walking around. As Abush and I hopped in a bajaj to get back to the hotel, a little boy excitedly tried to chase us down and was saying something loudly.

It was a curious moment. “What was he saying?” I asked Abush.

“Oh, he said ‘Look! Look! Here comes the woman who speaks Amharic!‘”

I was floored.

“What?! How could he possibly know who I am?”

Word gets around, he told me. I was in a traditional dress, wearing a scarf, and had been invited into someone’s home for bunna. No other tourist had likely done that today.

Inken was right, yet again. Make the smallest of efforts to connect, and the world — or at least Ethiopia — will open its arms to embrace you.

That Dress Looks Nice On You

Your musical pick today is Sufjan Stevens’ That Dress Looks Nice On You from his Seven Swans album. I meant to include this in the last post, but it feels relevant for this one too.

In addition, I include Paul Simon’s Under African Skies, performed live in 1987 to much controversy during Apartheid. Much of my time in Ethiopia underscored the true faces and places of the Bible. It made clear to me that the roots of our humanity are African. That no understanding of our world is complete without a reverence and respect for black-ness.

Joseph’s face was as black as the night
And the pale yellow moon shone in his eyes
His path was marked
By the stars in the Southern Hemisphere
And he walked the length of his days
Under African skies

And, of course, that Ethiopia is no shithole country.

The Ethiopian Moses

Our last full day’s hike began with a large, mostly dry riverbed where we jumped across giant boulders for what seemed like forever. From there, a notable ascent began as we made our way to Mulit. The Simiens began to feel like Monument Valley, and with the sun beating down and several steep switchbacks before us, we had to pace ourselves accordingly.

Melaku’s knee had been bothering him since the other day, and it was giving him a lot of grief at the outset. As I watched him wince and stumble across several rocks, I finally said, “Melaku, we need to get you a walking stick.” Member found a branch that seemed promising, but it was a struggle to get it free. Of course, a local popped out from  nowhere with an axe and helped take the stubborn thing down.

And that was it. Between the walking stick and the white shawl he was wearing over his head for sun protection, there was simply nothing more Moses than Melaku Berihun in that moment. I suspect the real Moses looked more like Melaku than Charlton Heston anyways.

As for me, God knows what look I must have had on my face because several locals, whom I swear were in their 60s and 70s, would look at me and say “be brave” or “have courage” as they sauntered by. The long and short of it is: this hike was kicking out tushies, a new word for the Germans and Ethiopians alike that I was happy to introduce to the lexicon.

Mulit

Ah, but Mulit had its own rewards.

 

Lunch was at a small village center less than an hour walk to our camp. We were pretty exhausted by that point and increasingly goofy. Member had a great meal prepared for us and also purchased some birtukan (oranges), while I broke open my last chocolate bar to share with Inken and Manuela. We joked about a fairly prominent rock formation in the distance that looked particularly….anatomical. I believe the Ahmaric word is biliti, so you can just look it up for yourselves.

Not surprisingly, the place was teeming with schoolchildren, and as we began our short walk to camp, at least a dozen joined us. They asked us questions and we learned that one intended to become a teacher, another an engineer, another a doctor and so own. There was a deep intelligence in their eyes. I hope that life lets them exercise their talents fully, because they all have that youthful hunger yet to be extinguished.

 

Inken and I had talked about doing yoga. She had a yoga mat so we figured we would take turns once at camp. But of course, we weren’t alone for long. I was relaxing in my tent while quite the crowd of children formed to watch Inken practice and teach a session to the woman who was hosting us. As the sounds got louder and louder, I decided to offer an easy flow for all of the kiddos too, so that Inken could focus. It was a simple practice – mostly standing tadasana and urdhva tadasana, tree pose and the like. But those little faces smiling and looking at you, mimicking your every move in awe…it reminded me of our TIMBo trips to Haiti. Don’t be surprised if Inken and I start a yoga venture for rural Ethiopians.

Fifi is born

Before dinner, Member and Melaku were enjoying some injera prepared by our host. Me, being an idiot, asked something about whether we were having fi fi for dinner, which for some reason I thought was the way to pronounce firfir, a traditional Ethiopian dish of spiced injera that is a popular breakfast food. Melaku was beside himself.

“Fifi,” he laughed, nearly spitting out his food. “I’m calling you Fifi from now on.”

And so it was. Over dinner, I shared my excitement about joining them to Bahir Dar after we finished the hike the next morning, because I wanted to be girly and buy a dress. Apparently I did some kind of shoulder shimmy when I said it and Fifi wants to buy a dress haunted me for the rest of the trip.

I’m not complaining.

Adirkay to Bahir Dar

The next morning, our remaining hike to Adirkay, a sizeable town, was easy and enjoyable. As I walked the final meters to meet Melis with the car, I was again swarmed by children and teenagers coming out of houses and shops to simply shake my hand and say welcome. What are you Ethiopia? How is your heart so open and big?

It was a relief to be back in the minibus and let something other than my legs carry me for a while. Our trip started down a beautiful new mountain road “built by Ethiopians, not the Chinese,” Melaku emphasized. After lunch in Debark and a pit stop in Gondar, the rugged mountains of the North gave way to more agricultural slopes, roads lined with acacia trees and eventually, the bustling city lights of Bahir Dar.

Inken, Manuela and I spent the next day shopping for a dress, which turns out to be a bit of an ordeal and a real lesson in shedding your vanity and modesty. But I was successful, and Fifi got her dress. We also shared a final meal overlooking beautiful Lake Tana with Melis and Melaku and then greeted their sister Selam, who lives in the city, for bunna and popcorn.

From Bahir Dar, I would be saying goodbye to this crew to return to Gondar for a flight to Lalibela the next day. The drive back to Gondar was bittersweet. I already missed Inken, Manuela and Melaku fiercely, but as Melis drove the van back up the winding path to the mountains, my heart swelled with the familiar sights of the North.

 

Head over heels, I was in love.

 

 

 

 

Day 2: The Trek to Sona

From Buwahit we made the long trek to Sona for camp. I believe this is when I fell in love with Ethiopia.

Our trail meandered through vast landscapes, revealing just how diverse the Simiens’ terrain is, how warm and friendly its people, how wide an area that silence can hold. Even in this dry season, without its green hills, there is a deep beauty to this land.

We frequently passed gelada monkeys as they moved around in their big families. It’s fun to watch them interact with each other — the babies falling over each other or chasing their mother for milk. The older males clearly positioning themselves to intimidate or protect others from these weird humans invading their space. They have a good life, those monkeys.

We walked alongside farms or, more commonly, pastoralists with herds of sheep or cattle roaming the hills. Always they would greet you. Off in the distance we’d hear tiny voices yelling “Selam nu!” and soon enough, little feet and faces would be hurrying our way, eager to shake our hands. Often, they’d look up at me with big eyes and ask “Pen? Pen?” Next time I’m bringing 1,000 pens with me.

It was overwhelmingly enchanting. Travel like this strips you of labels and vanity. I mean, who is Alicia Harvie anyway? All I could sense was one spirit connecting to another, my own feet ambling through this eternal earth that had no end to its beauty, and herds of cattle making room for an anonymous stranger. It can be unnerving to travel to a place devoid of the familiar coordinates that help you navigate your identity or purpose. But it can also be magical.

Sona Elementary School

Member, the cook, decided we would stay overnight at the school in Sona instead of the usual campsite. So we set up shop and were immediately swarmed by kids. No doubt we were the hottest news of the day.

I spoke with some of the teachers, who were for some reason impressed with my pithy Amharic. One taught chemistry, one taught English, another mathematics. They spoke of wanting to go to America and wondered what my views of President Trump were (they are quite aware of his attitudes toward black people and Africa) as well as President Obama. America’s light, as well as our shadow, can cast so far over this world.

Meanwhile, Inken had befriended some children living adjacent to the school (as in, literally next door), which inevitably led to an invitation for bunna and injera in their home. Outside of the meal I had at Melaku’s, this was the first time I was invited into someone’s house. Whereas Melaku’s home was equipped with different rooms, a giant TV and comfy couches for guests, this was a singular hut without any light source. I could hardly see in front of me, clumsily making my way to a bench stationed in front of the hearth where the mother started the bunna process over coals.

There was no ventilation for the smoke generated in that hut and as she passed around the pan of roasted coffee beans (for us to smell and nod and smile in approval), I tried not to cough. My clothes still carry a hint of smoke and bunna, even after being washed.

One of the daughters showed us her schoolbook as the mother started to clean out the little china cups traditionally used to serve bunna. Injera, the traditional spongy sourdough bread that accompanies every meal in Ethiopia, was presented. Inken and I took our right hands and sampled some, but tried not to ruin our appetite for dinner. As we readied ourselves to leave, Inken offered $200 birr for her kindness, which translates to about $7 USD.

That evening, we ate our meal and sat around a fire with our crew and staff from the school. Somehow, Sona was chillier than Chenek that evening. I curled up tight in the down jacket that Amin loaned me for the trip. I didn’t have to wait long for my legs to feel burning hot from the fire just inches away. In the dry season, it’s a wonder something didn’t catch fire.

Day 3: Bizuna Abwara

Speaking of the dry season, here’s the thing about the Simiens: they. are. dusty. I learned that the word for dust is abwara, which to my ears sounds more like avora. When you want to say “a lot” of something, you say bizu. But in truth, I was dealing with bizuna abwara, which roughly translates to a “shit-ton of dust.” I was basically an entirely different color by each day’s end:

The next day, our harrowing trek down to the river brought much more abwara as we navigated a trail that, let’s be honest, was really just a rock slide. Everybody fell at some point except Abati, the scout. Even Inken, who is nicknamed the Mountain Goat, took a slip toward the end. But fear not, dear readers, Ethiopia’s Alicia is still the Alicia you know and love. I was the reigning champion of falling, hitting the dirt at least 11 times.* The locals, it’s worth noting, ambled down the steep descent easily, often nudging donkeys in front of them, and without hiking boots to support them. Amazing.

*conservative estimate

The trail was absolutely beautiful that day. Not only were the mountains more lush and green, but we saw a huge variety of wildflowers. We even came across jasmine, which we three women took for ourselves and smelled throughout the hike to connect to our feminine power and energy. It was Inken’s idea.

At lunch, we bathed in the river while the men went and set up our station. We were of course joined by several curious children that appeared out of nowhere. Despite its remoteness, there really is no privacy in the Simiens. It made for interesting pee breaks.

A short trek from there brought us to Mekarebya, a small village that was our camp for the evening. We bought a few handcrafts from the women and again engaged with the children. Although it was the most populous place we’d seen in the Simiens to date, conditions were rough. Melaku, who worked as a nurse before beginning a tourism career, believed a child had polio (I thought it was rickets), and despite their bright dispositions, the kids were envious of our food and wanting for better clothes. As we munched on some popcorn, a common snack served with bunna and shay (tea), we couldn’t help but sneak some to the kids. But this only caused them to fight with each other and Inken had to intervene a few times.

I’m sure we all went to bed that evening wrestling with some guilt over our relative wealth, comfort and health. The problems are structural and so much bigger than any one individual. I never regret witnessing how other people in parts of the world live; in fact I think it’s essential. But, it doesn’t leave you with easy answers. I don’t presume that my way of living is ideal or that they are miserable. But no one should have to face hunger, or the threat of diseases that are easily vaccinated against, or live without adequate clothing in today’s world. We have enough to go around; we just haven’t displayed the political will to make it happen. I think of a passage from Pirkei Avot, a Jewish text that I was into as a teenager:

“You are not required to complete the work (of perfecting the world), but neither are you free to ignore it.” ~ Rabbi Tarfon 2:21

Or perhaps this one, which is pasted proudly on the Food for Free donation trucks around Boston:

“When I feed the hungry, they call me a saint. When I ask why people are hungry, they call me a Communist.” ~ Dom Hélder Câmara

“I like that you are amicable with the people,” Melaku said to me after I walked away from a small group of kids, a big smile on my face.

“Isn’t everyone like that?” I asked.

“No,” he said simply. “Not all tourists want to interact with them at all.”

Music

You get many fun gems for this post, friends. First, Dirty Laundry by Annie & the Beekeepers. Mostly for the title, although there’s some relevant lyrics. Also because it’s a Boston band.

And in honor of bunna, I offer the Cup of Coffee duet by Johnny Cash & Ramblin’ Jack Elliott,

as well as the White Stripes’ version of One More Cup of Coffee (Valley Below): 

And heck, I might as well offer you Bob Dylan’s version: