Ethiopia

From the outset Ethiopia was different and, although we had started to enjoy Sudan towards the end of our visit, somehow better. It might have been the people or it may have been the green mountainous countryside but we suspect it was probably the various different beer logos on the calendars scattered around the immigration office.

We cleared most of the formalities in no time and were in Ethiopia within an hour of our arrival at the Sudanese side. The only thing remaining for us to do was visit the customs office in Shehendi 35 km down the road.

When we arrived they were at lunch, and werenít expected back for two hours. As we were planning to leave Ethiopia via an unmanned border crossing in the southwest we werenít keen to have a carnet stamp. If we had one we would have either to get a corresponding exit stamp or complete more paperwork on our return to the UK, so we asked if we could see customs in Addis. ìOf courseî was the reply, so we set off before they could change their minds, heading for Addis the long way.

The road from the border to Gonder was fantastic. It was a well constructed gravel track that twisted and turned its way up and down valleys and along ridges and mountain tops. The countryside was green and fertile, and there were people everywhere waving and shouting as we passed. It was a massive contrast with the countries we had visited so far.

The people were, however, obviously very poor. There were very few cars, and most of those belonged to aid agencies. There were no motorcycles or pushbikes, and only a few donkeys. For the most part people walked, carrying what goods or possessions they had. This had the unfortunate side effect that very few of them had any road sense at all and we would regularly see people startled by our approach run right off the road into the undergrowth.

We reached Gonder fairly early and had the coordinates of the hotel we were aiming for. So when various touts tried to attract our attention we ignored them. One was very persistent though, running up the hill after us and arriving there as we were pulling through the gates. It turned out he worked there.

Yonas spoke good English, so we grilled him about where the internet cafes and restaurants were before having a quick wash and going out for some food. Unfortunately the first restaurant we tried was jammed full of people watching an important football game but when we emerged again Yonas was lurking outside. When we explained the situation he offered to show us a local restaurant. We agreed in spite of our reservations, so he took us to a dingy bar where we ordered the dreaded injera.

Injera sounds like a great idea. It is a large pancake made from fine grain that acts as cutlery, tablecloth and plate. The food arrives on a large tray lined with injera, which is used to pick up the vegetable or meat. So far so good. Unfortunately, injera is grey, looks like tripe and is also rubbery and tastes slightly sour. We were hungry and polished off the accompaniments if not all the injera.

The following morning, after shaking off Yonas we visited one of the more unexpected tourist sites of Ethiopia; the 17^th century castle in the centre of Gonder. It was great to wander around the peaceful grassy compound, marveling at a castle that would probably be ignored in Europe but is unique in Africa. Above all it was a great place to sit down and work out what we were going to do about our worsening fuel leak.

The tank basically needed replacing. It has a ìstoneguardî attached to its underside that traps water and stones and over time and rough roads this wears holes in the tank. We could get the tank welded, but a weld is a potential weak spot and as we were less than half way through our trip we were concerned that it might fail again before we reached Cape Town. After much umming and ahing we decided to get it welded and try to find a replacement in Addis.

Yonas took us to a garage in the outskirts of town that had a reassuringly busy feel to it. There were various aid trucks and minibuses being repaired and a steady stream of motorbikes coming in and out.

The mechanics quickly set to work to remove the tank and it wasnít long before they started separating the stoneguard. This had been welded in place along two sides and it took a certain amount of persuasion to remove it.

Finally, after 90 minutes, we could inspect the damage and see the various holes that had developed. There were loads. There were two larger holes, but when we swilled some diesel around inside we could see that the whole tank leaked like a sieve.

Once the tank was cleaned up the welder started work, using a series of plates to patch up the underside. Once he was happy with one plate he would pour some diesel in to check it before moving on. Eventually, some four hours later, he declared the tank leak free and handed it back to the mechanics to refit it. We left the garage well after dark and went for a celebratory beer.

The following morning we visited Debre Berhan Selassie church to admire the paintings. It was good mediaeval fire and brimstone stuff. The devil was red and fat burning in hell, Mohammed looked suitably ludicrous on a camel and there were saints everywhere killing in the name of Jesus. From there we said goodbye to Yonas and set off for Debark, the town closest to the Simien Mountains where we planned to do some trekking.

Organising the trek was extremely easy. The park headquarters has a fixed price system and a rota of scouts and guides. The mandatory scouts provide protection from the animals (as apparently there are hyenas there), however they donít speak English. In view of this we opted for a guide, assuming that he could act as protection too. Unfortunately the guides arenít allowed guns. Itís basically all a scheme to create employment, however it seems quite fairly done as each local village sends two men to be scouts.

This was all explained by Israel, the skinny little man who was to be our guide. He took us outside to meet Gabre, our scout. Israel was quite well dressed, he even wore some boots. Gabre, however, was obviously very poor. He wore threadbare, flared slacks, a tired wide collared shirt and a safari jacket of the same vintage. His one concession to the cold ñ we were going to be camping at 3600m ñ was a similarly threadbare blanket. He had no socks, only a pair of broken plastic sandals. He was also carrying the item that presumably helped him secure his job, an ancient machinegun.

After a quick trip to the market, where we bought paraffin and some small onions which were the only vegetables available, we set off up to the first campsite at Sankaber. Once again the track was spectacular as it followed the start of the 60km ridge we planned to walk along. On one side there were intensely cultivated fields sloping gently away, and on the other a 1000m-drop to the bottom of the Rift Valley.

We set off the following day after Israel had arranged a mule for our baggage. The walk took us along exposed, undulating cliff tops with various buzzards and vultures and the occasional lammergeyer for company. Occasionally we came across large groups of baboons, some of which had made their way into the fields and were being chased away by the farmers.

The trek to that eveningís camp at Geech took us six hours, it seemed that two months in the car had taken its toll. We felt tired but pretty good, but after putting the tent up we developed raging headaches and had to lie down. Israel was keen to do a quick walk up to a peak to watch the sunset, but we were quite happy to see it from the tent. That evening we saw Antoine and Nicole, a Canadian couple weíd met briefly in Aswan. Theyíd done the same route as us, bar the desert crossing, and were backpacking by public transport.

The night was bitterly cold and we woke to find a frost on the ground and ice in our water bottles. We were grateful for our last minute decision to pack the duvet as well as the sleeping bags. Our headaches had subsided so we set off for Imet Gogo a peak on the ridge at 3926m.

Once again the walk was spectacular, and quite unlike any other mountain range we have seen. The land is cultivated to about 3500m, but above that there is plenty of rich vegetation and the view into the valley was amazing with masses of long jagged ridges and round, flat topped volcanic plugs. There were even a few patches of snow in very sheltered spots.

After a long look at the view we ambled back along the ridge, electing to visit the last peak for sunset. Needless to say we didnít quite make it, watching the sunset from the campsite once again. We cooked in the scoutís hut that evening, as the campsite was busy and the sheltered spot weíd used the previous night was occupied. This had a couple of unfortunate side effects; we caught fleas from the mule blankets and a cough from the fumes.

The walk back out was a less strenuous but less picturesque 4 hour hike along a track and we were back in Debark that afternoon. On the way we found out that Gabre spoke some English after all: we could see our baggage was giving its handler some trouble and as it finally broke free and headed over a hill off to one side Gabre set off to help with one word ìMuleî. 

We also ran into Martin at Sankaber campsite, he was just starting the trek but had packed his mosquito net but not his tent. He didnít seem fazed when we pointed out that there were no mosquitoes as the temperature regularly fell below zero.

Once back in Debark we checked into a hotel and had a good wash as Israel had invited us over for dinner. His mum is known for her injera and doro wat, a spicy chicken stew with hard-boiled eggs that is effectively the national dish.

Israel came to get us so we wouldnít get lost, and as we walked down the dirt back streets we picked up an entourage of children shouting ìYou you you you you youî and ìWhatís your country?î The shouts of ìyouî are meant to get your attention, but it seems aggressive and becomes irritating very quickly. Apparently there is a direct translation in Amharic that is a great deal less confrontational.

As per tradition in Ethiopia we presented Mrs Israel with a small present on our arrival. Unfortunately the best we could do at short notice was a packet of Hobnobs, but she seemed pleased, at least she didnít throw us out.

The evening started with the coffee ceremony, where the beans are first roasted on a brazier before being ground and the resulting coffee served up with spoonfuls of sugar. Itís traditional to serve at least three cups so by the time the food was served we were buzzing, especially as Claire very rarely drinks coffee and Iíd given up on Egyptian instant.

The doro wat was delicious, easily overwhelming the injera and after our scant meals in the mountains we polished off bowls of stew. Once we were replete we were exposed to another Ethiopian tradition as Israel, as host, insisted on feeding us another couple of mouthfuls; solemnly bundling up a piece of chicken and popping it daintily in our mouths in spite of our warnings that we might explode.

Once we had said goodbye to his family Israel took us to a local bar for some tej, honey beer which is served in conical flasks similar to the ones we used in chemistry class at school. After our excesses earlier in the evening we failed to do it justice but watching the various conversations grind to a halt when a Holly Valance video came on was very entertaining.

The road between Debark and Aksum drops over the same ridge we had just walked along, it's a very narrow track in a series of tight hairpins. There are no safety barriers, allowing us a clear view over the cliff edge down the 1000m drop into the valley. It was not a place to be pushing on quickly.

Once we were at the bottom the hairpins continued, as we had to wend our way around the ridges and columns that weíd been admiring on our trek. It was spectacular and, as the road was well built, good fun. Unfortunately the fun came to an end about half way to Aksum when, during a brief stop we could smell diesel. It was pouring out of the bottom of the tank. Clearly the welding had failed.

The decision about whether to turn back or continue was fairly straightforward. We knew the road back to Debark and Gonder would be very slow going, but we hoped the road would be better as we approached Aksum. So, full of optimism, we continued.

    Near the Eritrean Border

Fortunately we knew where we were planning to stay, and had the GPS coordinates, so we drove straight there. Once we had drained the tank we calculated we had used 60 litres of diesel on a journey that should have used 30. We spent the rest of the day in a fruitless search for a second hand tank, giving up when we were offered the tank from a scrapped Series landy for the second time.

After investigating various options, including flying to Addis to buy a new tank, we decided to remove it and try to run on the 40 litre auxiliary tank in the rear wing. This depended on a couple of points; we had to attach the fuel pickup and return pipes, and more awkwardly we had to block the main filler pipe that attached the two tanks together.

We bought various jubilee clips and pipes on our way to the stelae park, which was our original reason for visiting Aksum. The stelae are two thousand year old monoliths marking important graves. They range from 8 to 33m high, the smaller ones are simple, smooth columns while the larger ones have carved windows and doors and look like miniature skyscrapers.

While we were there Loek turned up, just in time to lend us a torch and show us some of the recently discovered tombs. He was in his element, racing around the site and bribing the warden to let us into some small flooded catacombs that hadnít been unearthed when he was there the previous year.

After deciding that the modern cathedral was too ugly to warrant a visit, and that we really couldnít be bothered to look at the outside of the chapel that is supposed to house the ark of the covenant, we had lunch overlooking the Queen of Shebaís bath. Oddly enough it looks very unimpressive, if quite large, and dates from 1000 years later than it is supposed to.

Once we were back at the hotel I set to removing the broken tank. Once it was out we found that the filler pipe was handily about the size of a tin of sweet corn. After emptying it (the contents made a welcome respite from the diet of tuna) I reinforced it with a piece of pipe from the old tank, and clamped it in place. It didnít leak when filled with diesel, so I attached it to the auxiliary tank and attached the fuel pickup pipe to the tank drain and the return pipe to the breather.

        Eureka!

All this activity had drawn a small crowd, including a man with one withered arm who kept trying to help. He came in very useful when Loek dropped part of the funnel into the tank while refilling it; as he was skinny enough get his good hand into the tank to retrieve it.

We set off for Wukro early the next day as we were taking it steady to protect our bodged tank, and we would have to top up the tank every 100 miles or so. We took a detour to the monastery of Debre Damo, which is a self sufficient community perched on a flat mountain top at about 2400m. I was particularly keen to visit for two reasons, firstly the mountain is surrounded by cliffs and is only accessible by climbing a rope and secondly (and most importantly) it really annoyed Claire, as she wasnít allowed.

The climb up is aided from above by some monks pulling on a safety rope, I was assured as they tied it on with a granny knot that the safety rope was good for 100kg and there were three monks helping. So with some shouts of encouragement from Claire, Loek and the assembled crowd I set off up the 24m cliff.

Fortunately there were plenty of footholds on the vertical face as it was pretty hard work and the safety rope was digging into my ribs, which didnít help my breathing. I was quite badly out of breath as I clambered through the small gateway at the top to meet the single, rather small, monk who had been helping.

A young boy and his friend had latched onto me in the car park and had now followed me up the rope and as there was no one else offering to show me round I let him guide me round the village. As I asked him about life in the monastery it transpired that the community relied heavily on relatives bringing food from the local market as the 15 or so monks who now lived there had only few cattle, and they are all male so they even had to import milk.

The two churches were well maintained, and there were a steady stream of locals and pilgrims visiting, but the rest of the village was falling into disrepair. There are various small caves around the cliffs which are still occupied by hermits, but there is one that was occupied for 9 years continuously and is now unused. My guides climbed nimbly up the 15 ft or so to show me the various artifacts that are kept there, and they were very surprised when clambered up to join them in the tiny carved chamber.

At the top of the rope the safety monk demanded a tip before he would tie on the rope. I briefly contemplated not bothering, but my arms were still feeling the effects of the climb up so paid him half what he wanted. He wasnít particularly happy and only gave minimal assistance on my climb down.

Our next stop were some churches near the town of Wukro. They are believed to be the precursors to the churches in Lalibela that have been hewn out of the rock. The first one we visited was Petros and Paulos church, which was built on a ledge on a cliff.

The church was well signed off the road, and as we parked the cars a few local villagers appeared. They were all keen to help point out the obvious path up to the cliff base, and the handholds carved into the face to aid the 80ft climb. Loek took one look and decided to wait by the car.

Claire and I were quite glad for some rock climbing experience as we clambered up what is described in the Lonely Planet guide as ìA five-minute climb to the church using footholds up one part.î We did wonder if theyíd ever visited.

As we climbed up, more and more villagers appeared, all trying to help. Some were pointing out holds, others trying to move our hands and feet and one old man, possibly the priest, spent a great deal of time trying to help Claire up by pushing her bum!

Once we were at the church door, the priest insisted on payment before he would unlock it. We should have taken this as a warning, as not only did the price double as soon as we handed over a note and asked for change but the church was in a very poor state of repair.

We had a similarly crowded experience on the way down, fortunately I managed to place myself straight in front of Claire so I could both guide her and prevent any groping. In spite of this people were jostling each other, and occasionally us, in their efforts to help.

When we got back to the car each and every one of our ìhelpersî wanted payment for their part in our visit. I had made the mistake of parking in a fairly tight gap, and facing away from the road. So when we got into the car everyone crowded round us, stopping us closing the doors and leaving. They were pushing and poking us, shouting their demands in Tigrayan. Eventually I managed to use sign and body language to make it clear that no one would get anything until we got the doors shut. One man took control and cleared first my door and then Claireís.

As soon as we could I backed the car out and turned her round, pausing briefly to give some money to the one boy who had actually helped before setting off after Loek. The villagers gave chase, shouting and waving and trying to grab the car. When I saw this I slammed on the brakes and (admittedly slightly shamefully) giggled as I watched one of the least helpful yet most insistent teenagers sprawl in the dirt, as he bounced off a now stationary Landrover.

That night we stayed in what seemed to be the Wukro brothel. It was run by three flirtatious women, one of whom made four changes of her cleavage revealing clothing over the course of the evening.

Village children

We visited another couple of churches before heading south, taking a couple of detours to try and find a direct route through the mountains to Lalibela. It was very slow going as the main road was being built and as the terrain was so mountainous we had to wend our way up and down the muddy hairpins, and around the enormous earth moving machinery. It was like driving up and down a quarry for kilometre after kilometre.

We found another random hotel that night in Korem. Apparently it was shut, and yet we could stay. We think the manager was pulling a fast one on the owner. We ate at a restaurant at the other end of town and our walk there was probably the nicest ìfaranji (i.e. foreigner) frenzyî that we experienced in Ethiopia. Everyone was friendly and did genuinely only want a chat, rather than the more usual experience of begging.

Our walk back was marred slightly as one well-dressed young man latched onto me and started to tell me a long story about being a student in Addis, but he was unable to take up his place, as he had no money. As this was a familiar story, normally told by well-dressed (and presumably wealthy) young men with excellent English, I had no qualms about telling him that I could only give him advice. That would be helpful he replied. Perhaps, I suggested, he should use his excellent English and get a job? As is always the way, it was only afterwards I thought of suggesting he should try hustling tourists.

From Korem we went east to Sekota, aiming to take a short cut through the mountains to Lalibela. We took a slight detour trying and failing to find another church, but made it that afternoon.

We were extremely tired and stressed after our tour of northern Ethiopia and after checking out most of the better hotels checked into the nicest, if not the most expensive. We had a large bed that didnít sag, an en suite bathroom ñ with hot water and a sit down loo ñ and a balcony to watch the sunset from. It was fantastic.

We arrived at the churches shortly after dawn the next day to have a very peaceful and hassle free tour. The guides werenít up yet and the church precincts were full of monks and lay people praying, some of them in small holes carved in the rock walls. This had the advantage that if anyone approached us we would look solemn and hush them quiet until they left us alone. There was only one small boy that we couldnít get rid of, but after Claire noticed the fleas crawling in his clothes we paid him to go away.

The churches themselves were very impressive as they are full sized and have all the features like windows and columns that you would expect, but they are carved out of the ground.

We met up with Loek again and set of for Bahir Dar on Lake Tana, the source of the Blue Nile. We camped at a hotel on the lakeshore, finding Erik and Danielleís Series Landy in the car park. We caught up with them over a few beers and a boat trip to some monasteries around the lake. Our first stop was to see some hippos. At last we felt we were in Africa proper.

        The Blue Nile Falls

Lake Tana monastery paintings

From Bahir Dar it was a long dayís drive to Addis Ababa. Loek was getting more and more excited as we got closer. He was looking forward to seeing Mulat, the receptionist in the hotel that he stays at. When we arrived she had the day off, but that evening was the last time we saw Loek as he was apparently smitten and couldnít tear himself away.

We spent a few days in Addis, relaxing and enjoying the European food while we tried to source a new fuel tank. We had been given some contact numbers in Gonder and had been promised that one shop had a new tank. When we eventually found the store the tank wasnít there. We would have to return in a couple of hours.

While we waited we continued our fruitless search. We found a few second hand tanks but they were all extremely tired, and the prices were very high. They ranged from 300-400 pounds. A brand new tank at home is 70 pounds! When we returned to the original shop they had got hold of two tanks, both of which were knackered. They also wanted a ludicrous sum of money ñ about 500 pounds.

In the course of all this toing and froing we ran into Antoine and Nicole, and Rupert and his children again. We also had a run in with the law.

We were trying to get to the Hilton, as their exchange office has longer hours than most. We were caught up in traffic on a massive roundabout so we didnít notice that the turning we took was a one-way street. It didnít take long to realise our error and do a u-turn, but unfortunately we were seen a traffic policeman.

He was a bit shirty when we didnít stop immediately. This was mainly because I didnít realise he was trying to pull us over as he didnít use his sirens or lights, just his horn, which blended into the background cacophony. He asked for my driving license, took one look and informed us that we couldnít drive in Ethiopia on this; we had to have an Ethiopian license.

He then put it in his back pocket, told us to follow him to the station, got on his bike and set off. We were pretty certain that our documents were fine so we were both concerned that we were about to be stung for a bribe. This concern was increased when the cop seemed to be lost, pulling a u-turn when he missed a turning before stopping in a street that quite definitely didnít have a police station in it. He handed my license to a man in plain clothes who came over to explain that he would be taking us to the police station as our original policeman had to deal with a traffic incident. He then got into an unmarked 4x4 and set off.

By this stage we were quite fraught, about either being stung or having a load of paperwork to sort out. We were also quite lost. Fortunately the policeman found a couple of other officers on a bike and after stopping in the middle of a busy street to confer with them, pulled over and came back to return my license as everything was apparently in order. He then showed us the way to the Hilton.

From Addis we headed for Arba Minch, stopping overnight in Awassa. The town of Arba Minch is on a hill between two lakes, and we camped at a hotel perched on top of a steep hillside. The views over the lakes and Nechisar National Park were spectacular.

        Horses in pyjamas

We spent a the whole day in the park, getting excited about seeing our first zebra and gazelles before getting lost in a maze of banana plantations and fields at the far side. We were slightly nervous about driving down to the ìcrocodile marketî, an area where they bask in the sun. The crocs were huge, and as we were on our own we didnít get very close at all, preferring to stay safely on the roof while we watched.

    One of several thousand termite mounds en route

We reached Jinka the following day, stopping en route at a local village. The area around Jinka has various tribes of which the Mursi are the best known. The tribes people are known for being quite aggressive, and ask for payment for each and every photo that you take. The Mursi are known as the most aggressive, so we stopped at a Hamer village to get a feel for the negotiation process.

We stopped a little way from a group of villagers, and were relieved to see that they paid us no attention. That relief was short-lived: as soon as we approached them we were surrounded by people vying for our attention. We were expected to choose the people we wanted to photograph. It was a strange and uncomfortable experience to choose people like meat, photograph and pay them, and we decided to move on quickly. Of course we were then followed back to the car by the people we hadnít chosen, who were all putting on their most winning smiles.

     Hamer man

 From then on we tried to find people on the road, as it meant we got our pictures, they got some money, and there was less hassle. This didnít always work out as Ethiopia is so crowded, and there were plenty of enterprising people trying to get us to stop.

Often we would see children start dancing as they saw us coming, dropping into a squat and kicking their legs out like a Cossack. On one occasion we found a boy on stilts in the middle of the road. He was naked apart from some white paint. But when we stopped we were mobbed by people who came rushing out of the fields on either side. Even when we stopped to take pictures of the scenery people would gather, apparently out of nowhere. The most memorable of these was a large woman who whipped off her t-shirt as she ran, convinced that we would want pictures of an authentic tribal woman.

While we were in Jinka we visited the Saturday market. We ran into another couple of well-spoken, well-dressed and allegedly impoverished students and let them show us around. One of them claimed he was from the Mursi tribe, so we tried to gain an insight into the reason for the women to wear lip plates. We had no luck though as he was apparently not from that branch of the Mursi.

While we were there we were spotted by a couple of Mursi girls who rushed over to show us their plates, and their lips when the plates werenít in. We tried to talk to them via the two ìstudentsî, but as soon as we had paid them they rushed off to collar a couple more tourists. They found us a couple more times, as they changed plates to try and get us to take more photos.

Lip plates - not a good look

We were due to visit the Mursi village the next day, but after our experiences in the Hamer village and deciding that the lip plate was not a good look at all we werenít sure we could be bothered. The final straw came as we talked to an American family who had visited the village that day. They had enjoyed it, but said they wouldnít have gone if they had known what it was like.

Christmas day dawned like any other, and we were on the road early, as we had to cross Mago National Park that day. We were bypassing the Mursi village, and although the distance wasnít great we knew the roads were bad. We reached the park HQ by lunchtime and after inspecting their collection of elephant bones and skulls tucked into the Christmas cake we had bought from home, tucked away in a box in the depths of the car. It was wonderful; a moist, boozy fruitcake, and while it buoyed our spirits, it also made us feel quite sick as it was so rich.

We continued south through the park, catching sight of various strange antelope and birds, most of which we hadnít heard of until we looked them up in a book. Unfortunately, at some point on the way the track petered out. After searching around we picked up a few sets of tyre tracks that headed our way.

Assuming that they had to lead somewhere, we followed them. Occasionally the tracks would seem to firm up and we would think weíd found the road again, but soon enough they would peter out to the same two or three sets of tyre tracks. It was still relatively early, and we could trace our way back if needs be so we were fairly happy.

However we soon came across a man from (we think) the Karo tribe. We stopped to see if we could get some idea if we were heading in the right direction. He didnít understand us at all. But after posing for a photo and gently, but firmly, trying to pry more money out of my hands he made some hand signals that seemed to show a blockage across our path. We were unsure as to his exact meaning, but figured the tracks we were still following had to go somewhere. So we pushed on.

    Karo man

Soon enough we came to a dry riverbed. The banks on our side were quite low, but the opposite side had high vertical wall of dried mud. The tracks seemed to separate at this point so we followed the two sets that went east. They headed for a broken section of the bank that was steep and loose but at least not vertical.

After checking back and forth for an easier exit, and double-checking that the tracks continued at the top of the bank, we decided to have a go. I put KT in low range and engaged the difflock, selected first and trundled towards the bank. I was planning to start gently, to try and avoid breaking anything, but my concerns were unfounded as KT simply crawled up the 10-foot bank without hesitation. After a quick celebration we continued and soon came to a well-made track.

This was, we hoped, the road we had lost. There were no others on our map, but we had no idea where on it we were. The first thing we did was call home on the sat phone, as we had felt unable to call when we were lost in the middle of nowhere. We then continued south.

Fairly soon we found a Hamer woman carrying a large bundle of firewood. We pulled up to ask directions, completely failing to make ourselves understood. We knew that trying English was probably futile, but we couldnít even pronounce the name of two villages that we thought were nearby in a way that she comprehended. After this failed attempt at communication I reached for the camera, hoping to get a shot of her as she was, but as I tried to ask permission she dropped her firewood, rearranged her clothes and struck a wooden pose. It wasnít really what I was after.

    Hamer woman, without her bundle of wood

As we continued we could see no signs of civilisation. We were aiming for a village that had a lodge we could camp at, if we failed to find it we would have to camp rough in the bush. It wasnít what we were hoping for Christmas day. The track crested a rise before dropping into a forest. We could see nothing but treetops until the mountains on the horizon.

We only had an hour or two of light, so as we dropped into the trees we started to look for somewhere to camp. We then came across a t-junction. The road we met went due east-west, we wanted to continue south. Cursing we looked left for clues, then right, noticing for the first time the large sign over the road ìEthiopian Rift Valley Safari Campî. Weíd found it.

We were over the moon; the camp was lovely - set in woodland on the river edge. We asked about camping and were shown a plot for which they wanted US$9. We balked slightly, but it was Christmas and it had taken us 7 hours to do 100km so we didnít hesitate long.

Then the bad news started. The showers were cold. No problem, itís hot. They didnít have any food, as we hadnít prebooked. That was fine, we had enough. They didnít have any beer or wine either. That was more of a blow, but I was still hopeful we could get hold of a chicken. Unfortunately the people I asked only laughed in confusion at my attempts to mime a chicken or draw one in the dirt. There was only one thing to do: we built a big fire and doogied. (Doogying is cooking unleaven bread dough on a stick ñ when it is cooked you pull the stick out and fill the hole with jam, or in this case chocolate spread.)

We were up early the next day for our big push south to Kenya. A crowd of local people gathered as we packed up. Some were scrounging our empty plastic bottles, some hoping for us to take their picture and a couple with medical problems.

We headed south until we reached the road for Omorate, where we believed the road to Kenya started. As we got to the outskirts there was a police stop where we ran into problems. After checking our passports the policeman cycled off to fetch someone, returning shortly with the immigration officer. He asked for our customs declaration, and when we didnít have one he refused to stamp our passports. We tried to talk him round, but he was adamant. So we asked if we could enter Omorate to buy some bread, but he would only let us past if we left our passports with the policeman.

It was only after we refused to leave them and turned to go back that he let us through. Apparently he was convinced we wouldnít head south. Of course, once we were in town and people were pointing the way, that was exactly what we did.

We headed south through town picking up the track that the moneychangers had directed us to. We were both very nervous, but reasoned that the police and immigration people only had a bicycle between them so they were unlikely to give chase.

The track ran alongside the Omo River, which empties into Lake Turkana in Kenya. It was easy to follow, but bumpy. We drove through farmland between the fields and around villages until the track petered out and turned into a narrow path. We turned round; glad we had only just passed some people, and asked the way. Thankfully the first person to the window spoke English, and offered to guide us to Kenya. He claimed (rightly as it turned out) that the road we needed turned south 20km before Omorate. The second person to speak English was the village head, and he wanted to check our passports.

We didnít think we could brazen it out this close to the border. Luckily he wasnít in any uniform so we refused and shooing the now considerable crowd away from the car headed back to Omorate.

We decided that as our fuel situation wasnít ideal, Claire was slightly ill and we had had enough of hassle we would give up and head for the conventional route to Kenya via Moyale. This had itís own problems as the area was known for banditry and the road was reputedly awful.

We reached Moyale the following day. We were just too late to clear customs before lunch so we resigned ourselves to waiting until the following day to continue as the 250km to Marsabit could well take us a full day. When customs reopened it was clear that we didnít have a choice, as they were not as lax as we had expected and took ages to clear us because we didnít have a declaration form.

Once again we ran into Nicole and Antoine, we passed the time chatting and trying to ignore the goat that was tethered next to the car as it was due for slaughter the next day. They were due to start a marathon 24-hour bus ride to Nairobi the next day.

Once again we were up early, ready to face the rigours of Kenyan bureaucracy. We hadnít realised that we still had another hurdle in Ethiopia. The man on the barrier needed to collect our customs declaration. The one we didnít have. So we had to wait for the customs office to open so we could get them to explain.