The First White Woman

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Riding out of town on the back of Bereket’s bike he called out over the roar of wind in my ears; “do you like landscapes?”

We rode in the opposite direction to the Mago and the Mursi tribe. We rode into the hills, past small villages and hard working farmers. The hills were lush and green, the breeze was cool, and the further on we rode the more people jumped up and waved furiously at the sight of us. We rode on and on and I had no idea where we were heading.

Neat rows of people ploughing corn fields would all straighten up their stiffened backs. They would wipe the dirty sweat from their brows and squint in the harsh sunlight. They seemed bewildered when they saw my white face and white arms but they always waved. I tried to wave back at them all, but by the time their eyes adjusted and they comprehended what they saw I had already become a dot on their horizon.

Children would run along side the bike, not asking for money, just playing games trying to catch us.

At one stage we stopped for a rest beside an old man sweating over hot coals. We watched as he turned a scrap metal rod into a very sharp knife. He pumped air into the coals via a flat sheet of rubber spread across an empty hole in the ground. After he heated up the rod he would beat it into shape with a metal mallet and a stone. Of course he wanted to sell it to me, and cheap too, but I dint feel comfortable carrying a very large, very sharp knife around in my backpack. Then the man asked for the same amount of money for just watching him do his work. I was peeved, and nearly bought the knife – if I had to pay just to watch I may as well have taken something with me. But then Bereket paid. He insisted on paying even though I tried not to let him. I was confused and suspicious… cautious about what he would want in return.

We kept on riding along rocky dirt paths that I thought should be rode along at no faster than 20km, yet Bereket managed them at 50 and 60km. My body still hurt from the accident the day before, and I think the sweat I was sitting in was produced more from fear than the burning sun.

We were heading toward a village named Beneta. The closer we got to the village the more people stopped in their tracks, and dropped their buckets, babies and jaws. Some of the people we passed just stared, some lifted their palms in nervous half-waves. Most of them look like they’d just seen a ghost.

As we got closer to Beneta we passed more and more people all walking in the same direction and all of them staring in horror as we passed. Bereket warned me it was market day, and that we would soon be riding into a crowd of hundreds.

Sure enough we soon reached a clearing of moving colours. Bright colours. The ground was a hot orange, the sky a contrasting blue, the shade of blue in island travel brochures. The clothes on the hundreds of bodies was of every bright shade of colour that ever existed, greens, reds and purples. Cows and goats were scattered amongst people, trees had large sheets of patterned materials draped in every branch. There was a general murmur and chatter and excitement in the air.

Bereket tried to ride on past the market to park the bike, but no one in front of us would move. People had stopped dead. They look like they were glued to the earth or caught sinking in quick sand. They just stared at me. They nudged their friends in the back, who turned and gasped when they saw me. Some children screamed and started to cry. It was both noisy and silent at once. And I was self-consciously acutely aware of every part of my body, every movement I made, every time I blinked. Bereket gave up trying to drive forward and turned the bike off.

With the help of Bereket I got off the bike. When I stood up straight the people around me jumped back in fright. More and more people flew in closer to have a look as people wondered why the crowd had formed. When I caught someone’s eye they hid behind the person in front of them. Only children dared to come close. One child gingerly touched my arm with her finger and when I moved to touch her back the whole crowed yelped.

We all just stood there, staring at each other. They mumbled amongst themselves and Bereket translated for me;

“What is she? Is she real?” They asked each other and they asked him.

I could spot the few people in the back of the crowd who had seen a white person before. Although they were still curious they didn’t have quite the same look of horror on their face.

More of the ones up the front of the crowd had gathered courage and my arms and clothes were being tugged at and pulled.

Although some of the girls there had painted faces, as usual my tattoos drew the most attention. People stroked them and rubbed at them trying to get them off. They nattered excitedly amongst themselves. They noticed my stretched ears and although some were fascinated looking through to the other side, I heard a few say ‘Mursi Mursi’ which perhaps just confused them even more – certainly no other part of me looked like I came from the Mursi tribe.

Some especially curious women and children pulled back the waist of my shorts and peered in. They tried to raise my shirt up to my head and see what was hidden underneath.

But the funniest reaction was when I poked out my tongue and the glint of silver seemed to blind them. The look of horror and disgust on their faces was priceless. They covered their eyes with their hands and grabbed at their own tongues; “how does she live if she cant eat?” They asked Bereket.

They would poke their tongue out at me, indicating for me to do the same. And when I did they would clutch at their hearts. No matter how many times they saw me poke my tongue out they would react the same, gasping in horror, clutching their hearts and then asking me to do it again.

I tried to walk through the market but it was nearly impossible to move. At all times I had a crowd of between 50 and a 100 people. Women were fighting each other to hold my hand. People had started to notice the tattoo running up the back of my neck and they were eager to see where it spread from. People were unzipping my bag, wondering what treasures I brought with me.

I finally knew how it felt to be Lady Gaga.

Not one person asked for money. The whole experience was surreal and innocent. Their curiosity and intrigue summed up how I had been feeling for the past 4 months.

I was caught in one of the best moments of the entire trip, but it was exhausting, and stifling, and after 90 minutes I had to ask Bereket to try to get me out again.

I tried to see the market but it was a disaster when the crowd trampled all the goods spread out for sale. Fights were breaking out about who would hold my hand next. It had the destruction of a stampede, a very, very slow stampede.

We hoped on the bike and rode away. I tried to give my most heart-felt wave, tinged with apology for blowing in from no where, causing chaos and just as quickly leaving again. I wondered what the talk would be for days and weeks to come.

On the ride back to Jinka we stopped for lunch. I willed it to be the last injera I ever ate. I could no longer stomach it. After the meal I washed my hands and when I got back to the table I found out that Bereket had paid for our lunch. Again I was surprised and suspicious.

After lunch he insisted we go to a chat bar to chew together. After injera I really thought I’d vomit if I had to add leaves to the mix. I compromised by drinking chat tea instead, though it turned out to taste even worse than the leaves.

We rode back into Jinka as the sun was setting and he took us straight to the river. It was a good day, and I wasn’t quite ready for it to end. Although I had three days left until my flight this really felt like the end for me, and it was a good note to finish on.

There was a bus, two cars and a heap of motorbikes being washed in the river. There were naked men washing their clothes and their bits and not at all bashfully. Cattle were also being herded through the river, heading home from their day of grazing and the soap from the bathers was foaming on the surface. The water was only knee deep and barely moving yet families were collecting bottles and buckets to drink from. I wouldn’t have wanted to drink that water if I were dying of thirst.

Bereket asked if I would like a beer. When I said yes he whistled and a man wandered over. We handed this guy some cash and he got on a bike and rode off, returning shortly after with a half a dozen cold beers. I wrapped myself in Bereket’s cloth, drank a beer and watched as he bathed naked in the river. I would have gone in myself, but women were meant to shower further down stream and I was perfectly content to sit alone where I was.