At 5am I wedged myself in
the front seat between the driver and the passenger, sitting right on top of
the hand brake. The four other men were wedged in the back seat and all 7 of us
had bags shoved in the back piling to the roof and caving us in.
And so I spent a very
long, hot, squishy 15 hours in a van with 6 Ugandan priests and a gear stick up
my arse.
I would have thought that
my chances of getting along with 6 Ugandan priests were as likely as me sitting
in that van with my shoulders wedged behind Jesus himself. But pleasantly they
surprised me with their easy chatter, their good humour and their love for
reggae.
Denis, the priest in
training, spent only the first few hours challenging my atheism:
“How do you explain Jesus
visiting me in my sleep? How do you explain miracles? So who created the Big
Bang? How can you think the bible was
written by man? It is the word of God! It is… I know it is!”
At breakfast Denis called
over a man who was standing on the street selling scarves. Denis told the man
he wanted to buy 20 scarves from him. The man’s face lit up like diamonds were
falling from the sky. I wondered if this man even sold that in a week normally.
But Denis certainly made him work for it.
The man had at least
thirty scarves flung over both shoulders, and Denis unfolded, hung up and
scrutinized each one. Some had a stitch or two loose, or a stain that was
barely visible. And Denis told him that he could not find twenty that were good
enough and he sent him off to go fetch some more.
Mamo, who was by far the
funniest of the men said to Denis:
“Man, are you planning to
open a shop or what?”
Denis: “No I actually have
friends. And unlike you I care for my friends and want to get them something”.
Mamo in mock defence held
his hands palm out on either side of his face in an act of surrender:
“Hey man, I don’t mind if
you buy your two friends ten scarves each!”
It was the sort of banter
and playful insults my friends and I do at home, but for some reason I didn’t
expect such humour from Ugandan priests.
Word must have spread
around town, because another man selling scarves showed up with another thirty
slung over his shoulders. And then another and another. A man selling dresses
also showed up at our table, another selling babies clothes and a man selling
wooden crosses. The flurry and activity lifted the rest of us from our seats
and we all started to inspect the scarves, the dresses, and the baby’s clothes.
It became quite the spectacle. In the end I think every man that had gathered
around us sold at least one thing, but none could be nearly as happy, or
flushed and sweaty, as the man who sold twenty scarves.
Although the ride home was
nothing short of painful (physically), I felt comfortable in their company.
Safe. And I was hassle free all day.
That night back in Addis
they dropped me at a decent hotel and I had a shower and crashed into a disturb-less
sleep.
The next morning Mamo and
I went out to have eggs and coffee for breakfast and I told him my current
dilemma.
I told him how tired I
was. Tired of being stared at, hassled by beggars and hassled by men constantly
at my heals and waiting outside my bedroom door. I was tired from all the moral
dilemmas caused by own white guilt. I was over long bus trips, bad food,
flea-ridden beds. I was over being alone all the time. I had been sick, robbed,
grabbed at and groped. I had had hotel staff and tour guides harass me. I had
been in arguments and fights and waited on the side of the road in the heat
waiting for rides. I had been shit scared and broken down in tears both on
numerous occasions. I had fought often with my partner at home, and missed
numerous celebrations, birthdays and events of family and friends that made the
loneliness well up inside. I had seen things that my mind still is unable to
process: so much sadness, sickness and poverty and I had taken it all in and it
had eventually worn me down.
I told him that I was
thinking of taking the next flight home.
On the other hand I told
him that I wanted to see the tribes of the south, how intriguing they sounded
to me, with their stretched lip plates and bizarre ceremonies. I wondered if I
would regret getting so close to them and not summoning that last little bit of
strength to head south and find the tribes of the Omo Valley.
He listened to everything
I said and thoughtfully pondered my options. I felt guilty. I felt like I had
insulted Africa, Africans and therefore him personally. I felt like a whingeing
spoilt brat, and worse… I felt weak.
“You have made it this
far” he told me with no judgement in his voice. “You have gotten though all of
this, through three and a half months, what is just ten more days?”
He was right. I knew this
already. I just wasn’t sure if I had a reserve of energy hidden somewhere. But
at that moment I felt a fresh ripple of energy? Not the burst I was hoping for
but it was definitely there. My easy day with the funny Ugandans and now having
a local man who seemed to understand me, and not hit on me once, was good
energy that was slowly trickling through me like syrup.
“I am going to do it!” I
declared. And as soon as I had made up my mind and decided to stay I felt more
and more of that positive energy seeping through the pores of my skin. I felt
this urgency, to do it now, now before I changed my mind again, or before that
energy ran out of me quicker than it had oozed in.
I sent my mother an sms.
‘Can you please look up
skyscanner.com when is the next flight from Addis Ababa to Abra Minch?’
I knew that a 12 hour bus
trip would be a trigger for bad moods and a change in heart. A domestic flight
sounded ridiculous, but I could not face another long bus trip like that, not
yet.
My mother’s reply came
only ten minutes later
“2pm today”
It was already 11am. Mamo
had the airline’s number. I booked a ticket. He ran back to the hotel with me,
helped me pack my bags and pointed me in the direction of the airport. Before I
left him he called his friend in Abra Minch, told him to book me a room in a hotel
there and to pick me up from the airport when I land. I thanked him and he said
“no problem”, but I wasn’t thanking him for calling his friend or packing my
bags, I thanked him for the energy, the kindness and the experience I was about
to have that I felt was going to be a good one, and all because of him and his
gentle push.
I walked to the airport,
hot and sweaty, but practically skipping.
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