Assaita

The road to Assaita turns off the main Djibouti road some 100 km before the border, and goes through totally flat, grey desert, here and there some trees, but mostly the familiar nothingness. Except that quite a few gazelles still find a living here, and the occasional wild ostrich. And except that, in one way or another, quite a few Afar find a living, too, or at least are living in the occasional hamlets; herds of camels and goats roam around the huts.

(1, 2, 3, 4) the road to Assaita is fairly uniformly coloured, and gazelles, ostriches, camels or people do not change that much

Assaita itself is somewhere described as a cul-de-sac at the end of the world. It is, but because of it, it is actually a wonderful place, unspoilt. At the banks of the Awash River, this is the heart of Afar culture, those Afar that are reputedly such fearsome warriors, but who turn out to be some of the nicest, friendliest and most genuine people we have met so far in Ethiopia. Everywhere along the road, people break into a smile when they see us, rare ferenjis, pass; nothing like the hysteria in other parts of the country. This is also the first area where we manage to visit a village, and actually have some meaningful conversation, through an interpreter. Most Afars are Muslim (wonder whether that has anything to do with the genuine hospitality, and the general absence of begging here). Our host, Husser Burhaba, is a wealthy man, who has acquired already three wives, in three different villages, and has child number 10 on the way. He mostly raises animals – cows, goats, camels  – and sells them, but he also has some vegetable gardens, for which he needs the wives. He cannot understand why I have only one wife, but just in case I want to do away with her, too, he is prepared to make a reasonable offer – we don’t go into detail. Husser lives in a small hut, with bamboo cover, which is remarkably cool in the afternoon heat; we hardly fit through the entrance, though, big people as we Europeans are. His children, and many other children in the village, are initially afraid, but after a while they get used to us, curiosity is stronger than fear.

(5, 6) Husser and his family, and a few of the children outside the hut, having overcome their fear for the feranjis

(7, 8) cattle herding is still the main economic feature, here

We take a walk to one of the lakes outside Assaita, one of the many in which the Awash River disappears – as Thesiger demonstrated long ago. A bridge near Afambro, another Afar town, has collapsed, years ago, and the only way across is by tree trunk bridge. It turns out that the law has recently changed, or so we are told by the police in Afambro. We are no longer allowed to continue without police escort, which, however, they are happy to provide, against a nominal fee. Some features of good old Ethiopia slip back in.

All the way, the area is green, showing what irrigation can do. You can only imagine what Husser could become if he shifted his main attention from cattle herding to agriculture – how many more wives he could acquire! The nearby water also supports a lively bird population, of course (I realize that the subject “bird” is rapidly replacing the “market” of earlier weeks): I have never seen Kingfishers at 100-200 meter intervals.

(9) one of the lakes in which the Awash River disappears (and a whole lot more, it looks)

(10) a hut on the way to the lake, decorated with the things people find important here

(11, 12, 13, 14, 15) colourful birds they are, aren't they? whether nesting on the river bank or in trees, or just contemplating the world in tree or electricity pole

Assaita is also the place where we reach rock bottom as far as accommodation is concerned. The Bersha hotel is pleasant enough, reasonably clean rooms, and we have the suite, with double space, two large beds and ceiling fans, and windows onto the central courtyard  – but the common shower and toilets, latrines really, at the end of the courtyard are, well, not quite filthy, but definitely smelly. To the effect that it is better to keep the window closed. And the window on the other side, well, that opens into the cow shed. Choice of human or animal excrement smell. And something else: perhaps we are getting too old for holes in the ground. But like elsewhere in Assaita, the people are so nice, so helpful, so friendly.

A stroll through town – without our driver, without guide – is equally pleasant, unhurried. Everybody is outside, interested in the foreigner, but not with the sole objective to make money, they are actually genuinely curious, eager to talk. As if we are in a different country.

It is almost a pity we stay only one night – except for the hotel comfort, that is.

(16) the minaret of Assaita's mosque behind some shops

(17, 18) some of the towns inhabitants

(19) and the window of the Millenium Bar, closed unfortunately (the bar, as well as the window)

Awassa

After a morning detour to Arero, further east, to see more birds, a relatively successful venture, we headed north again, leaving the south of Ethiopia behind. Perhaps an illusion poorer, but all the richer for the experience.

(1) early morning country side on the way to Arero

(2) early morning bird - an owl - in a tree

(3, 4) and more, more colourful birds

(5) and a vulture making use of the termite hills

Where a week ago we drove along the western edge of the rift valley, we now took the eastern edge, through remarkably wooded country side, not just the thin eucalyptus they grow everywhere as building material, but big trees, pine trees, too. Despite the fairly forbidding mountainous nature of the land here, people seemed much better off, economically. Houses were bigger, and better constructed, clothing seemed of better quality; there was actually a lot of traffic on the road, something we haven’t seen for a while; a much greater variety of vegetables and fruit was on offer, and you know?, there was actually remarkably little cattle, and not many goats, either. People were growing the land, not the animals, and wealth is not counted in heads of cattle, but in how much money you earn. Which is perhaps why so many people seemed to work so hard, here, making a living for themselves. And with success.

Now, there may be a lot of other circumstances that favour this area more than the rest of the country, but I cannot get away from the idea that just grazing cattle and goats is perhaps not the best road to prosperity. It looks to me that, given the right initiative and attitude, there are actually alternatives to the abject poverty we have seen in so many other parts of this country. All the way to Awassa the area screames of success. Awassa itself is a very pleasant town, lake-side, well laid out, obviously more affluent, remarkably clean. Friendly people, genuine, helpful. We had our best meal here, in a real Italian restaurant. They have a fish market, and excellent fish. A supermarket with variety, and real shopping trolleys.

And almost nobody asked for my pen!

(6, 7, 8) fish market in Awassa, outside as well as inside

(9) and the fishermen are not alone....

(10, 11) various ways of transport on the road to Awassa

Omorate - the Dasanech

Did I say there was very little between Key Afar and Turmi? Between Turmi and Omorate there is even less – except for birds! In the dense savannah we see plenty of Guinea Fowl, and another walking bird, don’t know the name, and in the trees carmine bee-eaters and a whole range of other colourful birds fight for camera attention – once again, it is almost like a Mursi village!

(1) Guinea Fowl, plenty of them - could well, on occasion, be used as surrogate chicken on the menu (without telling you, of course)

(2) and another walker, perhaps the Arabian Buster?

(3, 4) but really, the most fun are the colourful birds, and especially if they agree to pose together!

The other feature of the landscape is the termite hills. Everywhere, they reach for the sky, like chimneys, sometimes higher than the surrounding trees. The only colour, apart from the birds, is provided by Oleander trees, some enormous, and many in full bloom.

(5) the termite hills, as chimneys rising from the earth

(6) oleander trees bring some colour

Omorate is a village you cannot miss, if only because it is at the end of the road, on the Omo River. The village itself is not much, despite its dual carriage way main street, but the reason to come to Omorate is to visit a Dasanech village, another tribe of this region, numbering perhaps 6000-7000 people, of which the most accessible 500 live just across the river, in a small hamlet. And Dasanech are indeed a culture on their own, although during the day it is mostly women and girls, and some old men that are present. In terms of cloths, they do not wear much, but body decoration is splendid, and very creative. An older woman has a head-dress of bottle openers, whilst the young girls have used the tops of soft drink bottles for their own head cover. Beads galore, necklaces, bracelets, the whole garamut. Sadly, I somehow have the impression that much of this is in response to tourist interest, the sillier you make your outfit, the more likely they are to take your picture– going rate two birr. And while not as insistent as the Mursi, they are really only hanging around to be photographed, and they make sure you know it.

(7, 8) our river transport, the same as used by local people

(9) a Dasanech hut

(10, 11, 12) and the people themselves, although I wonder how authentic the bottle tops are

Many of these girls should be in school, of course, but here only boys go to school, or so I am told by our guide (I wonder whether even this is true, given the number of young boys playing in the river, but anyhow). I don’t think any of my well-meant arguing why girls should go to school, too, will change the situation in the short term, the tourist business is simply too lucrative (just crossing the river, in a dug-out canoe, cost 3 US$ each!; and there are 20-25 photogenic girls lined up at the canoe landing place). In the long term, I hope, and I think, this culture will slowly die an inevitable death. Living in the very basic conditions that these people live in is not really necessary anymore, in 2012. But everybody will choose their own priorities. The few men we talk in the village all follow the British Premier League Soccer on television. They all think Arsenal is on the wrong track, and should sack the manager. As I said, a matter of priorities.

(13) cows being watered in the river - the only permanent source of water here, and (14) a woman making her way in between the cows

Turmi - the Hamar

A sign announces “Welcome to Turmi”, and that is just as well, otherwise one might even pass through the town without noticing. Turmi is some 2.5 hours drive from Key Afar – remember, where we visited the market? – and in those 2.5 hours very little changes outside. We are in bush and savannah landscape, a bit like the Mago Park, with plenty of trees, but mostly not very high, and interspersed with shrubs. What is most noticeable, is the total lack of traffic – despite that, major work is ongoing to upgrade the road -, and the total lack of people. So here and there some cattle is still scurrying around, some goats, too, but compared to the rest of the country, there is really very little here.

(1) Turmi being announced, just in case, and (2) Turmi centre on a Saturday afternoon

Turmi is Hamar-country, perhaps the most amiable tribe in the South Omo Valley. These are the fierce looking men who cannot help but smile at you, undermining the whole reason for looking fierce. Our tour operator had planned a visit to a Hamar village, far away from the beaten track, necessitating a strenuous walk in the heat, but promising a friendly, un-spoilt village at the end. Something went wrong. The guide perhaps had only understood that I wanted to walk, so I walked, for some 20 minutes, and there was the village. Turmi-West, a suburb of Turmi itself; the main road was actually two minutes away, on the other side of the village – we could have gone by car. When taking photos, I had to take care not to include the corrugated iron from the main town.

The village itself is nice enough, round huts, storage platforms, the usual stuff of a South Omo village. People in the village were friendly enough, too, and even up to the occasional conversation, which however, like so often here, invariably ended with the question “photo?, two birr!”.

(3, 4) the village, round huts, some even with door!

The first family I came across was building their new house, and asked me if I would help. Silly me understood they wanted me to help digging the holes for the support poles. No, what they meant was whether I could give them money, so they could buy coffee, or anything. Of course! That is the first thing you ask your visitors! Other conversations were not noticeably different, and were hampered by the fact that the guide did answer my questions even before translating them to the people I was supposed to interact with.

In the end I think I enjoyed the 20 minute walk the most.

(5, 6, 7) some of the people in the village, including women with their characteristic hair-do including a red mud for a sort of rastafa look

(8) and another inhabitant, happily finishing the dishes

(9) aloe plants survive remarkebly well in this dry climate

(10, 11) watching birds, and watching birds watch themselves, is one of the great activities in our hotel cum campsite in Turmi

(12) and we did come across some hapless Dutch campers, too, complete with laundry line and - get this - "De Telegraaf"!