Cape Verde, How Many Landscapes Can One Country Have? Really.

After Carnival in Mindelo, we got an aluguer (collective taxi) to another of Cape Verde’s islands, Santo Antao. Our destination was the sleepy town, Ponto do Sol, which is defined in my memory by the atmospheric coast it rests on. The water seemed to brood like the sky before a storm. We spent an afternoon wandering through the streets which were mostly empty, but only ended up returning to the water to watch the dramatic waves crash against the rocks.

We always found ourselves here at the end of the day watching the sea

the brooding sea

We were introduced to ponche, Cape Verde’s signature drink. Ponche is a mix of grogue and the fresh juice of whichever fruit you choose, plus lime and molasses. Common flavors are mango, coconut, and passion fruit. You can also have it with honey or chocolate. The consistency is thick and it tastes like a dessert. The drinks are poured small and they’re really inexpensive—clearly designed to try multiple flavors!

There was a clear path behind our hotel so we set out for a short walk on our second day. The views of the ocean and neighboring towns were so splendid that we continued walking past the time we intended. Before we knew it, we had been walking for three hours. It made more sense to continue to a town that was at least another two hours away so that we could get a taxi back. Because we thought we were only going a short walk, we didn’t bring enough money for both lunch and a taxi. So we continued our hike, taking in the scenery, but despite my best efforts, I was getting increasingly irritable because of hunger and exhaustion. I was hangry. We were between a stunningly beautiful “rock and a hard place.” The landscape changed unexpectedly at nearly every turn—from views of the ocean to wide, open hilly fields with ruins of bygone structures. Our bodies continued moving despite the ardor, and when we reached the town with the taxi we hustled to get the last taxi of the day to Ponto do Sol. Eight hours later, at our final destination, we couldn’t help but marvel at our unexpected adventure.

still walking. Getting hangry

More views. The path continues

Some terraced gardens

At the beginning of the unexpected long walk

The next day we visited a town called Tarrafal (one of three different towns called Tarrafal that we would visit in Cape Verde!). The town rests at the foot of a valley enclosed by steep terraced farms. The people dig stair steps into the mountains then plant farms in them. That way, they have steps that help them climb while they tend their gardens… which are planted in the steps! Brilliant and aesthetically pleasing! We could have hiked down into the valley but after the previous day’s incident, we both were happy to just ride the back of a truck in the open air.

One of many open air truck rides

The day was foggy with a slight chill. We walked through the town a bit and found ourselves at a guesthouse with a large variety of ponche. Naturally, I tried as many as I could! Then, I settled into one of the most mundane and peaceful parts of traveling—postcard writing. If you need proof that I am a closeted old person, there you have it. Nothing excites me more than some good ol’ postcard writing while I’m traveling.

One of the most amazing things about Cape Verde is the breathtaking variety of landscape. Almost twenty four hours after seeing the lush, green terraced farms, we were on the back of a truck with four Cape Verdeans and three tourists, going through dry, rocky, monochromatic terrain. We spent nearly two hours bumping along in the bed of a truck, watching the views of the ocean appear and disappear, with very little information about our destination.

the truck ride down to Tarrafal

views from the back of the truck

bundled up on the back of the truck

We finally reached our second “Tarrafal,” a town that is essentially one road along the sea with less than one thousand inhabitants. There are no attractions other than the peaceful surroundings and the beautiful landscape. We spent the days wandering around and Mat played a hilarious game of petanque with some children. I cracked up watching him struggle to explain the rules, while the kids took shortcuts and played it their way.

Mat plays petanque with the kids

Despite its insignificant size, Tarrafal is full of life. It rests along a beach of black sand. At night, the largest mountain shields out light from neighboring towns, so the stars are absolutely visible. No street lights and very little electricity anywhere to obstruct the view—I’ve never seen such a night sky.

the black sand beach

this mountain shields out the light from neighboring towns making the stars gloriously visible at night

A large reason Tarrafal is known to outsiders is because of a German husband and wife team of sailors, who docked there on a sailing trip over ten years ago. They returned a few times before deciding to give up their life at sea to build a guesthouse and settle down. They have since created a life there celebrates simplicity. Everyday the husband of the couple prepares a hearty soup, fish, and maybe a salad. Guests come and eat what they like, but instead of paying each time they eat, they record what they consume in a little notebook. They pay their tab at the end of their time in Tarrafal. And then there were “sundowns”! Each evening the couple makes a pitcher of ponche and sets it out with glasses on a terrace near the sea. Anyone who cares to can stop and sit have a drink while watching the sunset. They call it “sundown.” The crowd is a nice mix of tourists and locals, all enjoying the free booze and the sunset. There was also a violinist in our group—a tourist from Seattle who came in the same truck as we did—so there was violin music too!

“Sundown” ponche

“Sundown”

the little tab book

The next morning, we left Tarrafal before dawn. The stars were still in the sky and we felt so close to them riding once again in the bed of a truck. The air was cold so we bundled in our fleeces and windbreakers. We watched the sunrise over the mountains and the ocean as we entered town.

that’s me bundled up with a light on my head, riding back to town as the sun rises

 

A truck going down to Tarrafal as we leave

I know this sounds magical and beautiful and all that, but Cape Verde was a place of epic bad luck for us. My phone was stolen. Mat lost his wedding ring. Our flight reservations were mysteriously lost. On one long boat ride between islands, Mat had the worst sea-sickness that I (and some of the employees) have ever witnessed. We had little to no interaction with local people in Cape Verde. That was hard for me to get used to. We missed spending time in villages and the sincere exchanges we had with the people of continental West Africa (at this point: Benin, Togo, Ghana, and Nigeria). We didn’t do any planned hikes and though Cape Verde is famous for its scuba diving scene, it wasn’t diving season. We passed our days enjoying the beautiful landscapes, exploring towns by foot, eating street food, and giving ourselves a taste of daily life, which I was beginning to miss anyway. I celebrated my birthday by drinking ponche in a new town and sending postcards (along with wedding thank yous!). We grilled fish under the stars and Mat whipped up a dessert. It was my first birthday in warm weather. I felt fabulous. We had only one week left in Cape Verde before going to Senegal, our last country in West Africa. I was beginning to taste finality in everything.

 

 

houses in Ponto do Sol

 

At the beginning of the walk… before we got hangry, that is

 

 

 

 

Ain’t No Party Like Carnaval in Cape Verde

We said goodbye to our new friends in Ghana and boarded a flight to Senegal, but we were only in Dakar for one night. Our final destination was Cape Verde. Our eyes were set on Mindelo, the city with the largest Mardi Gras/Carnaval celebration outside of Brazil.

We had a bit of bad luck on the way there. Have you ever not been allowed to board your connecting flight because the airline sold your seats, though you were clearly there for the first flight? We didn’t know we had to check in for the connecting flight and were just waiting at the gate. By the time we realized we had to check in, the flight was closed. They had sold our seats. After going from office to office to explain that our luggage was on that flight, our seats had been sold in error, etc…we were given seats on the next flight, which was in ten hours. So we were stuck in an airport for ten hours with no luggage. Beware of domestic flights in Cape Verde. This was not our only incident.

But when we arrived in Mindelo that night and saw the apartment that would be ours for the next week, any idea of misfortune disappeared. Having an entire apartment all to ourselves was just what the doctor ordered! A kitchen to make our own meals and a terrace to wash and dry our clothes with a beautiful view of the city made it seem like a palace.

Our first day found us at the fish market with a grand plan to fry a whole fish. Though Mat speaks a bit of Portuguese, everyone we encountered spoke Creole so his Portuguese didn’t help much, especially in the fish market. Naturally, we bought the prettiest fish we saw! It was a blue-ish color, about a foot long, with a bright orange circle near its tail. But we had no idea what it was. We stuffed it with onions and spices and pan fried it in olive oil. Delicious!

The energy of Carnaval was everywhere in the air. We ate pasteis (little fried cod fish pastries) and other goodies we bought on the street, and looked for any pop-up event we could find. Carnaval is the big event of course, but there are many other parades and events leading up to it. On our second night we saw our first—a drum line marching through the streets and a group dancing the dance that we would see over and over that week. We learned that Carnaval in Cape Verde has a theme song and dance. All the groups that participate learn the choreography. The song is played by either a live band or blaring through a sound system. I was mesmerized by the joviality in the choreography; each person seemed to dance with equal parts pride and joy. I was pulled in though I had no idea what the words of the song said. Before long I found myself moving in a circle, trying the steps.

The next day we saw costumed school groups marching through the street. At night we saw a band on a sound stage in the street singing Cesaria Evora songs. All the events built our excitement for Carnival, but the night before gave us the only taste that could have possibly prepared us. We saw barricades along the sides of the streets so we gathered and waited where the people were, though we didn’t know what was going on. We found ourselves in a great spot on the “front row” right along the curb. Then a parade began that rivaled my image of Carnival so much that I wondered if it wasn’t actually the main event. Huge parade floats with a variety of themes rolled by with brilliantly costumed groups doing the Carnival dance. We watched for hours. I tried to decide which costumes were my favorites, which group was my favorite but it was impossible. Hours later we made our way back home to rest up for the main event. Carnival was less than 24 hours away!

We got there the next day around 3pm wearing matching outfits that we had tailor made in Benin and carrying a bottle of a mixed “adult” drink to round out the celebration. The “pre-parade” is hours of watching people and crews walk through the streets in all kinds of homemade costumes like they’re on a catwalk. Think Halloween parade in Greenwich Village. The costumes are random, using lots of shock affect. Tons of young men with stuffed bras worn outside of t-shirts and overstuffed asses with thongs worn over jeans. There was even a man covered in mud, carrying a bucket of mud, who would occasionally stop to sit and eat the mud.

When the first official parade float came by we cheered along with the hundreds of spectators in our vicinity. As the afternoon faded into the night, the beauty of the costumes and the unabashed sexiness—subtle and otherwise—of the entire spectacle continued to blow my mind. Half clad women of all body types proudly displayed their breasts barely hidden by sparkly pasties, and sometimes with no pasties at all. I loved how the costumes had versions for men and women and children too. And the costumes weren’t only provocative. Children and older people were there too, and not at all scantily clad. Some women in Carnival braved the parade in serious stilettos and others just wore rolled flats or bare feet. No matter what the person was wearing or the body type, everyone exuded confidence and festiveness. Each group had a “refreshment team” marching alongside them with water and snacks, carrying women’s shoes that had become uncomfortable, and ensuring that the design of the float and costumes stayed intact. The entire operation was tight! We marveled at all the floats and costumes, took as many pictures as we could, danced, laughed, and waved at the people in the parade.

We spent nearly eight hours at Carnaval. We even took a short dinner break and returned, though we definitely lost our prime viewing spot. After the parade was officially over we marched through the streets in throngs of people, literally touching shoulders and moving in step, chanting things that I didn’t understand. I laughed so much it hurt.

We finally went home, full of memories and mental images of the spectacle of Carnival and collapsed.

The next morning we woke up and realized that Mat was missing his wedding ring. We re-traced our steps, but we knew it was an impossible search. We went to the police station to file a report.

That was Carnaval.

 

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Misadventures in Ghana and What I Learned in Nima

For our last days in Ghana, we returned to Accra one last time. In Accra there is a neighborhood called Nima with a Rasta named Jah Spirit. His name is Emile, but most people call him his Rasta name, Jah Spirit. I know it sounds corny, but it’s the truth. And he was for real. He was unshakably serene and insisted on sharing his love of music and dance with us, as he had done with nearly one hundred people he had hosted in the previous two years. He gave us the room where he stayed in a small multi-family compound. His generosity was the sort that inspires generosity. His friend was also hosting two couchsurfers nearby and the six of us became a crew.

The first morning, I woke up with the sounds of the compound waking up. We slept with the door open and my head felt oddly clear. I assumed Jah Spirit’s plans of sharing music and dance with us would be an informal gathering that would take place later, but when three guys showed up later with drums and one began teaching choreography, I realized that we were in a full-blown workshop!

I learned the choreography with the other tourists while Mat learned drum riffs. I’ve taken African dance classes before, but this was different. Soon people from the neighborhood gathered to watch. A girl from the neighborhood joined. We had drawn a little crowd. People laughed and cheered and watched our motley crew of foreigners and locals experiencing the liberation of dance and music. At the end we each danced a solo. With sweat literally dripping off of me, I danced in celebration of the months of new experience.

But before Nima, Ghana was full of misadventures.

In Busua, I got a fish bone stuck in my throat for four days. I ate more half chewed bananas, fufu, and bread to get it out than I thought was humanly possible. I even went to see a doctor. I thought I would die with a fish bone in my neck. It ended up going away on its own.

In Kumasi, we were “cursed” by a cab driver (“I kess you!”) who expected to be our driver, though we never promised that. He harassed us with nasty texts for hours and I was seriously worried he would stalk us.

At Lake Bosumtwe, a swarm of flying ants infested our room after a rain storm. Thousands of ants clustered over any light source, so plentiful that we couldn’t see in front of us. We had to abandon the room.

In Elmina, we walked on the beach for miles going to the Elmina Slave Castle. The path to the castle seemed direct, but we ended up walking through dozens of pigs and people defecating on the beach before we reached our destination. Nearly three hours of walking through that. More people than I’ve ever seen relieving themselves in my entire life. It was mildly traumatic.

But all of that happened before Nima.

The morning after the music gathering, we shared a final lunch with our friends. We got food at a woman’s stall on the street. When I asked if I could take a picture of her serving the food, she smiled proudly as she scooped the food into leaves before handing it to us. Seeing her joy in this simple act embodied what I found in Nima. Nima taught me the importance of being present for all of life’s moments—that there is beauty to be found in the ordinary as well as the extraordinary, in the adventures and the misadventures.

As we drove off, a marching band from the Nima grade school marched through the streets. After we passed the band, Janet Jackson’s “Got Til’ It’s Gone” came on the radio. It was in and out, lots of static, but it seemed so fitting. Ghana had finally gotten under my skin only days before it was time to leave.

We were on our way to Cape Verde for carnival and Mardi Gras, followed by Senegal and Morocco. I still missed friends and familiarity, but I had finally found my rhythm.

 

Gettin down in my solo dance

Mat on the dundun

After the jam session

The day we left Ghana

Her smile when I asked if I could take a picture

Nima grade school marching through the streets

Nima grade school band

With Jah Spirit

 

 

 

Cape Coast Slave Castle/ African or African American?

We arrived in Accra after a long day of travel (see: Togo ride with baby goat).

I only wanted to explore Accra for a few days. My real destination was Cape Coast to visit the Slave Castle. I wanted to go for years, yet in a strange way I was dreading it. I remembered how Barrack and Michelle Obama’s visit in 2009 re-awakened an early memory of learning about the castles. I knew that I would visit one day; I just didn’t know how or when.  I thought of visiting intermittently ever since.  Now, here I was in Ghana just hours away. I felt the exhilaration of an old dream finally coming true.

We left Accra three days after we came. I didn’t find the joy I expected in Accra. It was too hot. My hands and feet swelled. We tried kenké, a fermented cassava swallow that is served wrapped in banana leaves. It was the first thing I ate that I truly could not stomach. I thought it would grow on me, so I ate it longer than I should have. The heat (temperature) of the dish made me hotter. Then the fermentation made me feel drunk and dizzy. The air was thick with heat and the mosquitoes were the most brutal we had encountered thus far. So I was pretty ready to leave Accra by day three. I figured the temperature on the coast would be cooler.

The question of African versus an African American identity was unavoidable on this trip. I had not gone to Africa to “find my roots,” in the usual sense. It was more like going home. I’ve always known that most of my roots are in the south of Nigeria in a region called Delta State in a village called Ukpiovwin, where many of my relatives still live. I had indeed connected with my ancestry in a very profound way, but it wasn’t the usual “find my roots” journey.

Oddly enough, I had not contemplated the questions that I would encounter from African people about being African American. Each time I told someone I was from the US, they would press further.

Really?, they would ask, as if they were confused.

Yup!, I would say.

Then I would inevitably provide a brief telling of my family history to explain that I was born in Nigeria and left when I was a year old and had spent all of my life in the states; my mother is from SC and my father is from Nigeria. I always felt this description was too detailed for a first meeting. I should be able to say where I am from briefly and divulge more information, at my choosing, later.

And then, as soon as I said I was born in Nigeria, they invariably had an “aha” moment and then proceeded to ignore the fact that I had spent my entire life in the US, that most of the family I personally know is African American. Being African automatically took precedence. I have no shame or qualms about being part Nigerian. It is an undeniable source of pride for me. Nevertheless, I wasn’t comfortable with the way seeing me as only Nigerian seemed to erase the fact that I had only been to Nigeria for the first time in my memory just under two months ago.

I know the truth of the matter is just that people need to categorize people they just met in a way that is uncomplicated and easy to remember. Traveling with my white husband also confused people and they needed some explanation. After all, it’s not like people see interracial couples walking around Africa all the time! I get it! But what each of these kinds of meetings did was make me very protective of the experience of being black in America.

Being African American became more visceral to me than it ever was on a daily basis in the states. I was protective of the stories of friends and relatives who look just like me yet have no idea where their ancestors are from on the continent. That history should be recognized. It shouldn’t be assumed that each person of the diaspora can pinpoint exactly their ancestry on the continent; as a matter of fact, most can’t. To make such an assumption is to disregard way too much history.

I got into the habit of lecturing people about the transatlantic slave trade. “Do you know how blacks came to the Americas and the Caribbean?” I would begin. And then I would get on my soapbox for anyone who would listen. So this history became “the thing around my neck” (thanks for expression, Chimamanda!).

And here I was, hours away from stepping into two of the castles where millions of Africans were kept before leaving African soil the last time in their lives. So I was feeling some things!

When we got to our destination, I was unsettled by the view of the castle wherever we went on the beach. The waves crashing against the rocks created such a dramatic background. I was emotional as soon as I saw it. I wondered about people who go through life so unconscious of history and vaguely envied them. Because it was already late afternoon, we opted to spend the day on the beach and to save the castle for the following day.

On the beach, I couldn’t take my eyes off the castle, just a stone’s throw away. That night, I slept terribly. Mosquitoes devoured me despite our mosquito net (???) and though I could hear the ocean, which usually relaxes me, it only made me think of visiting the castle.

The next morning, we put it off another day. I still wasn’t ready.

We visited The Baobab House instead. The first thing that attracted me about the Baobab House was the vegan restaurant and natural products like moringa leaves and shea butter sold in their cute little shop. But the most important thing about The Baobab House is that it supports a home for children with physical and mental disabilities called The Baobab Children Foundation. The Baobab Foundation gives the children a supportive place to live and teaches them traditional skills like batik making and wood-working. They sell all the products the children make in the shop. They also have a guesthouse and all the proceeds go to the foundation if you stay there! We were sad that there were no rooms available our first night in Cape Coast, so we were thrilled when we got a call saying a room was ready. We got the backpacks together and made the short 15 minute walk to settle into our new home at The Baobab House. We had a quick lunch in the café and walked 5 minutes to the castle.

We were greeted and given half an hour to visit the museum before the tour of the castle began. The guide took us through each of the rooms—the men’s chamber, the women’s chamber, the punishment cell. The darkness and lack of air were overwhelming. In the courtyard of the castle was a church and directly beneath the church was the punishment cell.

They worshiped while hearing the calls and cries for food, light, and air from imprisoned African people right below them. It struck me that the cruelty of slavery was not incidental. It was consciously embedded in the system from the very beginning. Time may make people minimize the capacity for human cruelty inherent in this. The cruelty was real and they justified it every single day.

I held my breath through the tour.

I even held my breath through the beautiful moment of going through The Door of No Return. This is the door that the Africans went through to board the ship to the Americas, the Caribbean, and to Western Europe. This is usually the emotional highlight of the tour. You go through the door with the label, “The Door of No Return” hauntingly written above it. Then, on the other side you find another label above the other side of the door: “The Door of Return.” You walk through and there is the beautiful Twi word in a friendly sign, “Akwaaba.” Akwaaba means “Welcome,” but it also stands for the welcoming spirit. The spirit of open arms and an open door and general good will. I stopped holding my breath for a while to live through the moment. I realized suddenly that I had made it through the tour without crying! I had done it! I began to breathe a bit more normally.

We went back to the courtyard and the guide began making his concluding remarks. He asked us if we had any other questions. I said that I had no questions; that I just wanted to thank him for being a wonderful guide. I started telling him how I always wanted to come here, that this is the reason why we are here in Cape Coast…and then I became vaguely aware of the fact that I was rambling. And before I knew it, I was crying. Tears and tears gushing, unstoppable. I apologized. He said it was normal. Many people cry. I was stunned.

I treated myself later by selecting some fabric to have a shirt made at The Baobab House. Did I mention you can choose batik prints made by the children and have clothing made right there in the shop?!

Cape Coast wasn’t the only slave castle we visited (we went to Elmina a few days later), but it was the one that made the deepest impression. I ended up finding my joy in Ghana in a few other places: lake Bosumtwe, Kumasi, and our second trip to Accra, where a couchsurfer and his friends gave us an experience we’ll never forget.

First sight of the castle on the beach

The guide turned off the lights to give us a sense of the darkness

The stuffiness is unforgettable

The castle courtyard

These words were written above this door and the meaning was made clear to Africans boarding the awaiting ships. The cruelty of slavery was not incidental.

Walking through the Door of No Return…

…I returned!

After coming back through the door. Akwaaba is a Twi word that means “Welcome.” It also includes the welcoming spirit and all it signifies

Cape Coast is a beautiful fishing town. Here are some fisherman working with a net.

Ever since I heard about the Obama’s visit in 2009, I knew I would come. I just didn’t know when.

The acknowledgement. Is it enough?

Looking at the ocean out of a window at the castle

View from the castle

The other side of the Door of No Return

From our room at the Baobab House

The sweet Baobab House

The Baobab Children Foundation- a home for children with mental and physical disabilities that teaches them traditional skills like batik making and wood-working

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And Then There Was Togo (plus a three month re-cap of the adventure)

After Benin, there was Togo.

In Benin, we had met Edith and Grant in Abomey. We had gone on safari in Pendjari Park. We had seen the tata sombas of breathtaking Natitingou. We had swum in a waterfall where I had a panic attack half way across the pool and had to be rescued by Mat, which by this point had become kind of a funny story.

And that’s just Benin! If I included all the adventures from the beginning of this journey, it’d look something like this:

1. Four weeks in Egypt

The pyramids, temples, hot springs, and a three-day boat ride across the Nile (the two of us with our friend, Wes)

2. Three weeks in Ethiopia

The rock hewn churches, Awra Amba, the hike in the Simian Mountains, traditional music and dance clubs, meeting Mengesha, Messay. Alem, and countless other angels lighting our way and helping us out

3. Three weeks in Nigeria

FINALLY meeting my family (!!!), seeing drill monkeys in Calabar, going to Kalakuta Museum (Fela’s final home), and discovering a few gems at the Jazzhole in Ikoyi.

In each place, we met people who inspired us with their generosity and openness.

So, Togo found us awash with the joy of our adventure. We only allotted four days for Togo. I was interested in discovering the country, but I was anxious to get to Ghana!

We splurged on an air conditioned suite at a guesthouse in Kpalime (pronounced: PAL-ee-may), thinking that we would take some time to rest comfortably since we were nearing the halfway point of our trip. The owner of the guesthouse, a 60 something year old Togolese man, set us up with a pair of drivers (motorcycle taxis) to take us to our top destinations: a butterfly trail and a hike in a botanical forest.

The next day, we were surprised to find that our drivers both looked younger than eighteen years old. They were tentative and I noticed they put a lot of effort in making sure they seemed like they knew what they were talking about. They grew on me fast! 🙂  They took us on a quick trail with butterflies darting by our eyes every few steps. So many beautiful colors, it was hard to keep up. The trail led to a natural pool with a small waterfall. It was very shallow and I could see the bottom. I waded in the cool, refreshing water and wished our time wasn’t so brief.

Butterfly trail

Wading in the waterfall after the butterfly trail

Soon it was time to move onto the botanical forest. The motorcycles climbed winding mountain sides, giving us amazing views of the city. Some difficulties with one of the bikes delayed us for awhile, but soon we were on our way again.

Stalled for awhile

Views from the mountain

Motorcycle selfie!!

We arrived at a park with a pathway lined with art and framed boxes of butterflies and insects for sale at the entrance. The air was cool with the shade of the trees. I was immediately impressed with our guide’s knowledge of the forest. He told us about healing plants and showed us natural colors found in plants that can be used as paints. He made Mat a butterfly tattoo with all of the colors we found. I was kind of jealous until he made me this tattoo that I liked much better than Mat’s anyway!

 

My tattoo!

Pineapple in the wild

Sour apple, soursop, guanabana…delicious however you call it!!!

Wish I could remember the name of these fragrant flowers!

The guide blew my mind from the jump!

Soursop flowers- beautiful and medicinal

The ubiquitous banana tree!

Both Mat and I had joked with our motorbike drivers that on the way home we would do the driving. And whaddya know? Our young friends decided to take us up on the offer! They handed us the keys, gave us a quick lesson, and we each drove a few miles on the open road.

This was a rare part of our trip where we stayed somewhere briefly enough to actually JUST BE tourists. Being in a country for four days isn’t enough time to get used to life, become familiar with streets, or find hidden gems. So we were just your average tourists for a few days. Anyone who has traveled for longer than one month knows how essential these moments are.

The next day we said goodbyes and made our way to the bus station to go to Ghana. We got to the station at 9AM expecting to catch the early bus. But after buying our tickets, we waited another five hours before we left. We grabbed the two front seats on the bus, but then we found out that we were directly beneath a goat tied to the roof! We had prime seats for watching the baby goat skid down the windshield the entire ride.

The open road after a glorious day

After hours of riding we finally crossed over into Accra.  Did we really just ride in a van for 8 hours with a baby goat strapped to the roof?? (I didn’t even talk about the chicken under the backseat either!) We hadn’t eaten in almost ten hours. We had no reservations for a place to stay for the night so we spent some time finding a place. The streets were dark (not unusual) and we were tired from our day of travel. At long last we found a decent place to lay our bags and venture out for dinner.

It was the end of January 2015 and I felt I had finally found my travel groove. It was no longer a vacation, but a way of life. And I loved it. I had no idea that what lay ahead in Ghana would inspire me more profoundly than anything I had seen thus far.

Did we just ride 8 hours with a baby goat tied to the roof??? Ghana, here we come!!!

The Tiny Country That Wraps Its Arms Around You (And Doesn’t Let Go): Benin

The first thing I fell in love with about Benin was the zem. A zem is motorcycle taxi and is the main means of inner city transportation. A person can get almost anywhere for around .25 to $1. On the morning that we left Nigeria and crossed the Beninese border by bus, I looked out of the window into a vibrant sea of motorcycles. I saw women driving them and women riding them with babies strapped to their backs. I saw small children sandwiched in between adults. I saw 2x4s riding between handlebars and strapped to saddles. I was captivated. So when Mat told a zem driver the name of our guesthouse, I didn’t hesitate to hop on the back. I was surprised by my lack of fear. I copied the posture of the people I saw (back straight with one hand on each of my thighs not touching the driver), and relaxed into the ride that was the beginning of the adventure of our fourth country.

A sea of zems

My first zem ride in Cotonou, Benin

Mat probably should have been holding on, but he was taking this picture

The second thing I feel in love with about Benin was the food. Maquis are street food spots, with spaces as small as one long wooden bench or as large as a small restaurant with a few tables. Regardless of the space, the food we found at maquis was unfailingly delicious. Fresh fish, rice with a tomato stew, greens with egusi, and spices that remind me of Nigeria made my heart sing. On our first day in Cotonou, we discovered a maquis a few doors down from our guesthouse owned by woman named Francesca. We stopped by to enjoy one of Francesca’s delicious meals every day that we were in Cotonou.

We ate at Francesca’s every day we were in Cotonou. Here’s Francesca in her kitchen.

About to devour fried fish, tomato stew, greens with egusi

Fish, pounded yam, and a soup we could never get the name of. We only saw people cooking outside a house here and asked if they were selling. The bench was our table.

Everywhere we went people addressed me speaking Fon, ignoring Mat until they realized that Mat was, as a French speaker, the person who could most effectively communicate with them. First, Mat spoke to them in French and then they would respond to me in Fon. After drawing a polite, uncomprehending look, they would look at Mat to see if I was deaf. And Mat would take over and explain that I’m American, I only understand French if you speak slow, etc…and then we would all laugh and get on with whatever started the interaction.

In Cotonou we visited Ganvié, a village that rests entirely on a lake, so all the buildings and homes are on stilts. Residents transport themselves on boats between the buildings. Fishing is the main industry. We rowed around for nearly an hour witnessing this unique way of life.

A floating store in Ganvié

I love the hats women wear to keep cool in the sun. Another floating business.

A typical home in Ganvié

Off to school

Home life in Ganvié

Our guide, Thiery, is 21 years old and is the co-founder of a non-profit for orphans and at risk youth from Ganvié. He is a student studying computer science, but he is taking a semester off to save money because he can’t afford the materials required for the program. He speaks French, Fon, and a bit of English. He is clearly worthy of many a college scholarship, but where is the assistance? I wish that weren’t a rhetorical question.

The village is small, and many aspects of life that people in the West would consider private are done in the open, so it is hard to not feel like an intruder. I try to be careful that my picture taking is not invasive, but even so I can tell that some people do not welcome them. Thiery says that it is because people come to take pictures and put them on postcards for profit, but the people never see the money.

After Cotonou and Ganvié, we move on to Ouidah to try to catch what we can of the famous Voodoo fest. We get in a bush taxi full of people making the 1 hour trip to the sleepy town of Ouidah. In Ouidah, we stayed at the Le Jardin Secret, a small guesthouse owned by Pasqual, a Frenchman who built the place after making a 5 country trip through W. Africa on his motorcycle.

The motorcycle Pascal drove through 5 countries before settling in Ouidah.

When we arrive, we take a 45 minute walk to the beach and see the aftermath of Voodoo festivities (we missed the main ceremony). Later, we saw people walking through the streets dressed as eguns (ghosts) and I danced with a young girl dressed as an egun at a local bar that night.

Dancing with a little egun

When we got to the beach, I was struck by a monument called “The Point of No Return” which was built to commemorate the place on the shore where many African captives saw their last of African soil. I stood with tears in my eyes as I posed for a picture.

I was nervous about The Dahomey Museum that we would visit in Abomey. We were given so much information by the guide that by the end of the hour and a half, my mind was swimming with images of the powerful kingdom, the obas on their stools, Amazon women warriors fighting for the kingdom, and the unfortunate people who were sold into the slavery to support the kingdom’s prolific wealth. I grilled the tour guide about the amount of education students receive about slavery in school. He insisted that they are well educated, but I am distrustful. Every bone in my body is asking that the brutal history of slavery not be forgotten, and I feel it is being skimmed over.

The next thing I loved about Benin is not a thing at all, but a person. Her name is Edith. She owns a guesthouse of 4 rooms simply called Chez Edith. We bonded instantly, leaping across a language barrier as if it didn’t even exist. She speaks French and Fon. Instead of just speaking to Mat in French and relying on him to translate, she spoke to me in French very slowly and deliberately. I was able to understand and respond—also very slowly and deliberately. And that is how we became friends in less than two days. When it was time to say goodbye, we hugged with tears in our eyes.

With my sister friend, Edith

Keeping Edith company while she cooks

Chez Edith’s

Our room at Edith’s

It was time to say goodbye to Benin a week later. In our final week in the tiny country that stole our hearts, we went up north to Natitingou where we did two days of Safari at Pendjari Park.

Monkeys relaxing

The elephant was ready for us to move on and began to charge

The family remains still while the mother advances to protect the group

Elephants crossing

Mat checking out the elephants

Magnificent birds everywhere

Antelope

A hippo sunbathing

The termite mansion. Yes. That was built by termites.

Monkeys crossing

On our final night in Benin, we stayed with a couchsurfer, Hermione, in Natitingou. We made a delicious dinner together and played cards. She practiced her English. I practiced my French. We laughed over nothing in particular and said goodbye in the morning. We were on our way to Togo.

Pounding yam with Hermione

The market in Abomey

In an underground village in Abomey

The Road to My Village- On Discovering Home in Nigeria

Our final city in Ethiopia was the ancient Islamic city of Harar, where we fed hyenas (see video below!) and met Alem. Alem checked on us every day while we were sick, and ultimately took me to the hospital. She stuck by us like an old friend though she had only known us a few days. When I felt better, we danced together in the street, laughing, doing a step she taught me, and I knew that our travels had gifted me with yet another sister.

At long last, it was time to go to Nigeria.

Have you ever dreamt of a place so much that it becomes hard to believe you have never been? That’s how I felt about Nigeria; the only thing is that the “never been” part isn’t exactly true. I was born there. My family left when I was a year old and I’d had a longing to visit as long as I could remember. It nagged me that I had a whole family there that I didn’t know. What is more, as of 2013 I had been to 5 European countries and still had not been to Nigeria. I could no longer reconcile that. Getting information from my parents about their life in Nigeria never gave me the detail I longed for. I know now that there is nothing my parents could have told me that could have prepared me for the experience of going and seeing for myself anyway.

In September, I contacted my uncle who we would stay with in the village. When I dialed his number I was anxious beyond belief. But when I heard his voice that sounded identical to my father’s, I felt a familiarity which told me that everything would be ok. He greeted me warmly and said, “Joy! I am standing here in your ancestral home!” That phrase, “ancestral home,” both made me raise an eyebrow and made my heart leap. What could that be like to know, and be a part of, your “ancestral home”? Did I actually have one? Is that silly to even contemplate?

On December 14^th, we left Addis Ababa and boarded a plane for Lagos, the city where I was born. I felt a serenity that I have felt only a few times in my life. As we waited to board, I wrote in a quick email to a friend: “It seems as if so many moments in my life have led to this one…” and I posted this picture on my social media:

When the plane finally touched down in Lagos, a feeling came over me that said, “I am home.”

And the record stops there.

All feelings of serenity/peace/violins playing came to a crashing halt as we entered the airport in Lagos.

We were greeted by the most disorganized mass I have seen outside of New York City, starting with a little mess that I like to call the “medical hustle.” The medical hustle is scrambling through a crowd of people to get a light shined at your forehead to check if you have a fever and to show your yellow fever certificate. Mat’s yellow fever certificate was deemed unacceptable and we were told we needed to pay a “fee” (read bribe for the airport worker) to be allowed to pass. We were nervous because we needed a connecting flight to Warri, my family’s hometown, and we needed to buy a ticket and board the next flight. Perhaps a bit unrealistic but we could only hope.

Hours of hassle later, we made it on the next flight to Warri. My heart was in my stomach. Would my family like me? Would they accept Mat?

But after being on the flight for a few hours, we were alerted that the plane was turning around and we were returning to Lagos! The weather was too bad to safely land in Warri. Delayed gratification!

The next morning after an agonizing 3 hour delay, our flight finally took off for Warri. When we arrived my uncle’s driver was waiting to take us to Ukpiovwen, the family village.

In the car, an employee of my uncle’s who was with the driver looked at me in surprise and said,

“So you don’t even know the road to your village?!”

“No,” I said. “I don’t know the road to my village.”

And he began to point out the road to me.

As we drove along, I was struck by the similarities between the long country roads of South Carolina, my home state in the US, and the road to the village in Warri. Paved roads wind into dirt roads and dirt roads become paved; wild vegetation all around; open fields; and small gardens that appear in the bush. It all seemed like home. I wondered about the union of my mother and father—2 people that seemed to be from different worlds (my mother from a small town in South Carolina, and my father from a small village in Nigeria), but in terms of landscape of origin, aren’t so different at all. The earth has many stories to tell.

When I walked into my uncle’s home and saw my aunt, I fell to my knees and exclaimed Migwo! (Urhobo greeting of respect for elders) as she pulled me up and hugged me.

She said, “I am so happy you are here. I am happy you came home.”

In the days that followed, we met all of my uncle and aunt’s children (and spoke to the eldest who lives in the states), my cousins who soon began to feel like my brothers and sisters. We played cards, had many conversations, and shared lots of laughter. We also met a host of uncles, aunts, and other cousins, and had one of the best Christmases of my life.

On Christmas Eve, it was warm enough to grill outside and shoot fireworks! It felt like the 4^th of July. We danced on the lawn, learned some of the latest moves in Nigeria, and had a good time at each other’s moved.

Some of the most meaningful times I had in my family’s village were the conversations I shared with my cousins, aunt, and uncle. I learned more about my family’s history, how to cook a few dishes (including our native banga soup!), and heard stories from my father’s childhood. It was easy to feel at home.

I cried buckets when it was time to leave. We were hugged so tight by my aunt, and I missed them almost immediately. I couldn’t believe that so many years had gone by without my ever knowing my family.

We left Warri to spend New Year’s Eve in Lagos at The New Africa Shrine, the old club of legendary Fela Kuti, and listen to some live music. When we showed up on New Year’s Eve, we found that the band was on vacation for the next 3 weeks! Not exactly how I imagined New Year’s. We had to pass the week in Lagos waiting for the Beninese embassy to open so Mat could get a visa for Benin, the next country on our itinerary.

But our week in Lagos had its rewards. We visited the famous Jazz Hole and spent hours talking to the couple who owns it. I found books to keep me occupied for hours. At my family’s house in Warri, I finished Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s collection of short stories, The Thing Around Your Neck. I had now read all of her books. In the days that followed, I read Chinua Achebe’s personal account of the Biafran war, There Was a Country. Finding a book to follow that would be hard! Besides my awesome travel partner, a guy who I can always find something to talk about with, books have been my constant companions through this journey. It was awesome to find that in my uncle and aunt’s home, they had Purple Hibiscus (which I read there), and other books by Adichie. In Lagos, we also visited Terra Kulture, where I had more “bonding time” with my current literary idol.

As expected, Lagos was a hard city to navigate. With 25 million people, it makes NYC look like child’s play. But soon we got used to negotiating prices on kekes (3 wheeled tuc tucs), and figuring out our way through the city on the public minivan taxis. In restaurants, we got used to people being surprised that Mat eats Nigerian food and sometimes rudely assuming that he doesn’t know what he’s ordering.

I remembered my aunt’s words to me if I ever had problems in Lagos: “Remember you are African!” I laughed when she said it, but her advice came in handy many times. Mat continued to amaze me with his unquantifiable ability to adapt and negotiate. After Lagos, I knew that we could make it anywhere.

And unexpectedly, one evening sitting in a crowded mini-van taxi stuck in rush hour traffic for upwards of 2 hours, I watched the sun set on the legendary city of Africa and found a place in my heart for the city of my birth. I have a thing with cities: they always find a way deep into my bones and I fall in love with them despite the hours of hassle, the inevitable exhaustion, and the countless scrapes I suffer. Lagos was no different.

And that evening on the public taxi, Mat and I jumped out in the traffic and decided to walk the rest of the way home.

Silly shots with some of the cousins

My aunt laughing her laugh in front of her home in Ukpiovwen

Mat happily sitting down to a plate of egusi and amala

In front of my uncle and aunt’s house in outfits designed by cousin Esiri

A house opening ceremony for a family member

On our way to Calabar. With cousins Ekpuvie and Omamerhi.

My grandfather’s compound in the village

With Chimamanda at Terra Kulture

Pepper soup and boiled yams at Terra Kulture

With a couchsurfer friend in Lagos

At Kalakuta Museum, the last home of Fela Kuti

Good food for thought. At Kalakuta.

A processional outside the Oba’s palace in Benin City

Baboons, Rock Hewn Churches, and Saying Goodbye to Ethiopia

After leaving the comfort of Awra Amba, our next adventure was a hiking trip in the Simian Mountains. We were looking for a trip that was mostly full so that the price was already at its lowest before we signed on. It was a game of talking to recruiters (guys on the street organizing trips for travel agencies), seeing what their particular trip offered, and how low they could take the price. We played it for a few days and then we signed on for a trek. The price included a guide, two armed guards, a tent, sleeping bags, and all of our meals.  A major highlight of a hike through the Simian Mountains is the wildlife, and each trip promises a citing of gelada baboons. I wasn’t exactly sure how they could “promise that we would see baboons” and I was worried that we would somehow be the unlucky few who don’t see them.

The first morning of our trek we were warned about the altitude, told to drink plenty of water, and to go as slow as necessary until our bodies adjusted. The air felt cool in the mountains, almost chilly, but then the sun would beat down on us until we were sweating. Our guide was particularly knowledgeable about the natural medicines and herbs found in the mountains. I was enthralled by the St. John’s Wort, thyme, and lavender that grow wild there.

Sitting next to St. John’s Wort enjoying the views of the Simian Mountains

Each group is required to have an armed guard for protection from bandits in the mountains. Our group had two. The park seemed incredibly safe to me so having two armed men accompanying us seemed unnecessary. But then I found myself feeling so much gratitude and admiration for these men. They know the mountains like the back of their hands. They climbed expertly despite wearing plastic “jelly” sandals and worn boots with several holes.

Certain stretches of the mountains were covered with loose rocks. There was a period of time on our first day of the hike when I kept slipping.  My feet kept finding the loose ones, and before I knew it I’d have lost my footing. One time, my foot slipped when we were on the edge of a very steep escarpment. I would have fallen off the side of the mountain if one of the scouts hadn’t grabbed the shoulder of my shirt.  The entire hike, he never left my side. Every time I slipped he was there and he held my hand down the steepest mountain sides. He didn’t speak English, so we never communicated with words other than my sincerely saying Amesegenallo  (thank you in Amharic) over and over.  I thought to myself in some mixture of humor and gratitude, “Today my angel is carrying a shotgun.”

Today my angel is carrying a shotgun

The guards enjoying the view

Nighttime in the Simian Mountains is very cold. I was surprised to find that the guards slept outdoors with only their blankets thrown around their bodies. Many of them had holes in their clothes and no socks.  At night, when we were sitting around a fire they insisted that we take the warmest seats. We refused adamantly until we realized that they would only take the warmest seats if we left, so we stayed only briefly and decided to enjoy their company during the day instead.

It wasn’t until we had finished the hike and were on our way back to the camp that we finally saw the baboons. A whole pack was crossing the road right in front of us.

Gelada baboons crossing

Gelada baboons grazing

A few weeks later when we were in Lalibela, we went on a day hike up the steepest mountain I have ever climbed. We were taken on the hike by Messay and Mengesha. Messay and Mengesha are brothers in their early twenties. They live in one room that serves as both living room and bedroom, but with no toilet or kitchen. They rent out their room on airbnb.com, which is how we met them. For 4 days their room was ours. Their meals mostly come from the owners of the complex who live in a house next door. When they have renters, they stay with their neighbor. The toilet facilities were a cement hole covered by a modest curtain out back. This may sound bleak, but Messay and Mengensha are 2 of the most gracious people I have ever met. They went out of their way to make us comfortable and we were in complete awe of their spirit.

They took us on the hike on our final day with them. The peak seemed beyond my ability level and I didn’t think I could make it. Many times I didn’t think it was worth it to keep going.  I was humbled by the countless women and children we saw climbing the steep mountain with heavy loads on their backs and heads and, sometimes, with no shoes on their feet. I knew that even though I was tired, I could never complain.  With everyone’s encouragement, I kept going and we reached the top.

Trekking up a steep mountain with a little help from my friends

Messay almost at the top

Mengesha making me very nervous with this jump shot

Enjoying a tea with Mat after reaching the top

It was totally worth it. There were the most sublime views ever and for the second time we saw baboons. But this time the baboon siting seemed even more special. There was a pack of about 100 baboons grazing in a field and we were able to get within 10 feet of them. And then the farmer whose field they were grazing in came out and threw rocks at them while yelling curses in Amharic. He chased them all the way down a mountain. The baboons ran away and hid on the side of the mountain as if they were waiting for the right moment to return   We all laughed lots at the scene, but especially Mengesha and Messay who understood all the farmer’s curses.

I know that most people will say that the rock hewn churches of Lalibela are the major highlight of the city, but for me it was meeting Mengesha and Messay and completing the hike that I thought I couldn’t complete.

The rock hewn churches are nothing to sneeze at though. They are incredible feats in architecture and design, as well as a great testimony to the power of story. The stories of the King of Lalibela have remained unchanged for hundreds of years and the people’s belief in their veracity make up the fabric of their faith and general raison d’etre.

A quiet moment in one of the rock hewn churches

Skeletons of pilgrims who died after making a pilgrimage to the churches

It is truly amazing to witness people of my generation unaffected by logic and/or cynicism and willing to believe the stories of their people. I believe that it is this strong hold of faith that has gotten the people through periods of famine and that has allowed the nation to consistently defeat would-be colonizers.

However, I also know that religious conviction and a lack of cynicism can make people complacent. Indeed, there have been very few improvements to their way of life over the centuries. 90% of the people work in physically demanding agriculture with no modern machinery and youth unemployment is rampant. How does a nation reconcile these things?

While these questions swam about in my head, I began to feel impatient with Ethiopia. I yearned for familiarity. Everything in the country felt thoroughly foreign to me and I needed a reprieve. Our next country was Nigeria and I was anxious to finally be there with my family.

To top it off, I was beginning to feel sick. My skin and hair were constantly dehydrated from the dry mountain air. I had begun to get mysterious bumps all over my body (which we later discovered were a side effect of our malaria pills), and I had unexplainable stomach pains daily (also from the malaria pills). I began to miss my friends terribly. While I was interested in the places we visited, my mind was on the riots happening back in the states. I was angry about the police brutality and the subsequent acquittals related to Eric Garner and Michael Brown. I wanted to take part in what was happening in the states.

But there was no reprieve. We said goodbye to Lalibela and Mengesha and Messay and got ready to go to our final city in Ethiopia.

Mat on his way to the Simian Mountains

Ready to go!

Views of the Simian Mts. also called the rooftop of Africa

The road up to the mountains

The marketplace in Lalibela

Gone But Not Left- A Revolutionary Village in Northern Ethiopia

We arrive in the town of Bahir Dar one afternoon after a 12 hour bus ride from Addis Ababa. Because of its location on a lake, Bahir Dar feels like a beach town. The wide avenues are lined with palm trees, attractive restaurants, and hotels. We see people biking the mostly flat streets in the sun. This feels very different from the aggressive, urban Addis Ababa.

When we get to the hotel that we are looking for, we find that is has been shut down for weeks. How could that be? We had just read a review for it on lonelyplanet.com that was written 2 days ago! The people hanging around the abandoned hotel tell us that things change quickly and the hotel probably couldn’t pay some government tax. Of course, one of the people is a young man who wants to take us to his hotel instead. We refuse his offer and sit on the steps of the closed hotel to look in our guidebook. We find the names of a few other hotels and set out looking for them.

After looking at 5 unacceptable places (2 claim to be hotels but are really only restaurants), we sit on some steps feeling homeless, hot, and exhausted. We are approached by another young man offering to show us his hotel. We turn him down and get ready to go to the next hotel on our list.

When we arrive, we see the same young man.

You walked all around to come to my hotel anyway!, he says.

We laugh and we agree to let him show us some places. He finds us a beautiful room with a view of the lake right in the city center that is within our price range.

The place also has wifi so I set about sending emails to my friends who I am missing more and more everyday. Because internet connections are usually shoddy, I type emails to friends in word documents so that when I have internet the emails are queued up and ready to go. By the time I send emails, I’ve usually been working on them for days.

Our helper’s name is Aleymeyhu. After he finds us a hotel, he offers us a spot on a boat tour of the monasteries of Bahir Dar, which are beautiful ancient structures situated in the “jungles” of the islets surrounding the city. Because these monasteries are on islands, you need a ferry to get to them and the rides are only offered to groups. It looks like we have to join a group but we have to negotiate a better price. After we turn down his offer he returns to our room hours later offering a better deal. After a half an hour of negotiating, we sign up. The boat leaves in the morning.

The boat ride is peaceful and I enjoy seeing pelicans on the water and fisherman in the traditional bamboo canoes. The monasteries are interesting, but I find myself more drawn to the small dirt paths of the islets than to visiting the monasteries. Each island has an air of mystery created by the jungle canopies. I am captivated by the vegetation (including wild coffee) and the serenity of each place. A rustle in the trees makes us look up and we see a monkey jump a branch.

The boat ride to the monasteries

A monkey catches our attention

Wild coffee

After a while, Kristin, another young woman in our group, and I strike up a conversation. She is African American but has spent most of her life abroad, and now lives in Addis Ababa. We talk about the relationship of African Americans to Africa, books, and lots more. I enjoy her company and at the end of the day we make plans to have dinner together at night. I am grateful to enjoy her company after so many weeks of not bonding with any women.

The following day, we take a journey to Tisa Bai to see the Blue Nile Falls. It is the bumpiest ride of my life (45 minutes on a dirt road in a 3 wheeled tuc tuc), but I am in awe of the life that I see around me. Everywhere I look along the road seems to be a photograph—people in bright colors carrying loads on their heads, leading cattle, laughing, and yelling things at us along the way. I imagine stopping the tuc tuc to take pictures, but I feel like an intruder in this world. I am grateful to just pass through to witness the sights. The next day we leave Bahir Dar to go to what we expect will be a major highlight of our time in Ethiopia, Awra Amba.

A month before we left NYC, Mat came across a documentary about Awra Amba, a village in Ethiopia of 400 people that is somewhat of an anomaly. Everywhere else in Ethiopia, men and women have very strict gender roles. There are jobs that are considered to be for men and those for women. In Awra Amba, the person who is best suited for the job does the job, regardless of gender. So some men are cooks, which you find nowhere else in the country. The proceeds of their industry, weaving, are shared evenly among the villagers. There is no begging, no poverty, all children attend school (and many go on to university), and old people are taken care of without having to work or beg. There is also no church or mosque in the village, though they are not atheists and the villagers are free to worship outside of the village.

Mat contacted the filmmakers for the contact information of the village so that we could visit. He also found out that they were looking for a place to screen the documentary in NYC. We ended up hosting the screening at Gratitude Café in Brooklyn and it was a big success.

Now we are here in Ethiopia and every time we mention Awra Amba to locals we meet, they are very happy and excited that we will visit. We can tell that the village is very respected.

We take a 2 hour bus ride to Awra Amba and we are let out on a road that is a 2km walk to the village. A child shadows us along the way. This happens very frequently in Ethiopia. Children follow you around hoping to be given money or candy to get lost. Finally, I turn and ask the girl her name. I ask if she is from Awra Amba. She says yes, but I know she is lying. “If you were from Awra Amba,” I say gently, “you would not be asking for money.” I’m not sure if she understands me, but I think I see a hint of shame in her face. Soon she stops following us.

The longer we are in Africa, the more I see the harm of fostering a culture of dependency. Everywhere we go, we meet intelligent, capable people. If children make money begging on the streets, there is no incentive for them to go to school and a cycle of dependency is perpetuated. So I am excited to visit Awra Amba where begging is not permitted, to see first-hand the ingenuity and wealth of a group of African people who have put their noses to the ground to create better lives for themselves. The people are humble, industrious, and self-reliant.

We take our things to the visitors’ quarters and are given a tour of the small village, where we learn the principles and history of the group. We meet Deresa, the man who is called “the angel of visitors,” as he is responsible for hospitality. Deresa is a sweet man with a warm smile, who laughs through almost all of his sentences. He wears an apron that was woven in the village.   He takes our dinner order (our usual baiyenetu) and shows us our room. All of the buildings in Awra Amba are cement with tin roofs. Our room is painted yellow and has 2 small windows.

Deresa, “The angel of visitors,” posing in an Awra Amba made scarf and apron

Getting settled into our room in the visitor’s quarters

On our first night, we join the children of the village in a volleyball game. The children are so good that I soon decide to enjoy the game from the sidelines. Mat plays a good game and makes friends. I sit on the grass, imagining what they are saying, and watch the sunset. Because of the language barrier, talking to the villagers is next to impossible. Only a few speak English and those that speak English tend to have greater responsibility so they are quite busy.

The village is on about 50 acres of land and there is a tree in the center. Fields of cattle and beautiful mountain views surround the homes, cafeteria, school, museum, library, store, visitor’s center, and administrative building. I am happy to learn that the children participate in art programs that are conducted by volunteers who wish to donate their talents. There is very little money to pay for art programs. I contemplate doing theater with the children, but I don’t see a way because of the annoying language barrier. When we saw the documentary, I was concerned that art did not seem to be present in the lives of the people. Now I understand why. While they are prosperous and growing, every cent must be watched and art programs seem tertiary.

Our days here are very restful. We spend most of our time learning Amharic letters and words from some of the children and sitting under the welcome tree. We also play cards with another man who is visiting, reminding us of our many nights of card playing with Wes in Egypt.

Soon it is time to go. We leave the village with Gebahayu, the man who was our main contact before we came. He is an accountant and manages programs for the village. We discuss the agricultural goals of the village, my questions about art programming, and the recent trips the founder, Zumrat, has been invited on to discuss the ideals of the village.

When we say goodbye on the road, I feel our time has come too soon. Awra Amba has left an indelible mark on my heart already. The more time we spend in Africa, the more I realize how revolutionary this small village is. Though we have left, it has not left me. What happens when a group of people think outside the box, does something out of the ordinary, and uses humble ingenuity to re-imagine life? Awra Amba!

Visting the museum at Awra Amba

The road to Awra Amba

The Welcome Room at Awra Amba

The community tree in the middle of the village

Kids in the community

A building at Awra Amba

One of the workshops where the community business, weaving, is done

Mat under the community tree

The road from Bahir Dar to Awra Amba

Saying goodbye to Gebeyhu

The Travel Gods Strike Again

It is our last day in Addis Ababa. We envision a low key day of walking around the city and letting the streets take us where they will. And I also have a plan to find some bobby pins and chapstick! Bobby pins really aren’t made to last. These are things you can’t anticipate when you pack a single backpack for a 6 month journey!

We have been enjoying traditional Ethiopian cuisine for almost every meal of the day. We love baiyenetu (AKA a veggie combo) on fasting days and shiro (a delicious spicy bean based sauce) is our favorite. Ethiopian meals are served on injera—kind of like a crepe that has a sour, tangy flavor—and are eaten with the hands.

Injera and a pot of shiro

Baiyenetu (aka a veggie combo)

We have also fallen in love with the fresh juices of Ethiopia, as we did in Egypt. But the juices in Ethiopia are better. They are simply pureed fruit with no ice or sugar, served in a tall glass mug with a long spoon and a straw (on request). Avocado is popular, but we always order a mix, which is a combination of all the fruit they have on hand, usually mango, papaya, guava, and avocado. They also serve the juices with a lemon wedge. I don’t know the reason for the lemon but I love it.

Enjoying a juice with Ras

Papaya, guava, avocado, and Mat

Papaya, guava, avocado, and me

The previous night we went to see a play on a whim! A play all in Amharic! We didn’t understand a word. It was a comedy though, so we laughed when the audience laughed and found some funny things for ourselves too.

Today we are walking through the streets and decide to stop for a juice. We find a place that looks good, but when we ask if they serve juice the waitress doesn’t understand us. Thankfully, there is a group of men sitting at a table and one of them translates for us.

We take a seat and I notice some artwork on the wall that I like. I point to a piece and one of the men says,

“I did that.”

“Really?,” I say.

And he begins to explain his process of creating the piece. We find out that he teaches an art course nearby. A conversation ensues and they invite us to join them at their table. The 3 men are a group of artists who have degrees in visual art and co-own a studio. Though we had just planned on having juice, they invite us to share their food and we accept. It is as delicious as the conversation is engaging. We talk about their lives as artists in a city like Addis Ababa and the lives of artists in NYC. We talk about cultural exchange and I tell them about my academic interests.

The best part of the conversation comes when we mention Awra Amba. Awra Amba is a completely gender equal village in Ethiopia. This may not sound like a big deal unless you understand how strict the gender roles are in most of Ethiopia. Awra Amba is also completely cooperative, they have their own textile industry and all the money is shared evenly among the villagers. We first heard of Awra Amba in September when Mat stumbled upon a documentary made about the village. He contacted the filmmakers to get the contact information of the village so that we could visit. He also found out that the filmmakers, Paulina and Serdar, were looking for a place to screen the film in NYC. Because I was working at a great little coffee shop called Gratitude Café with a projector and a space perfect for a screening, I pitched the idea of hosting the screening at the coffee shop to the owners. The owners agreed, we made fliers, and within weeks Paulina and Serdar had flown into NYC to screen their film at Gratitude Café and at the Tribeca Film Institute. The evening of the screening, the café was packed. It was a huge success and we met 3 Ethiopians who knew about Awra Amba. I told them about our trip and they filled my head with ideas and answered all of my questions about their homeland. I also grew more excited than ever to visit the village in the flesh.

Now here we are in Ethiopia enjoying conversation with these 3 artistic strangers who are quickly becoming our new friends. When we tell them that we plan on visiting Awra Amba, they light up. They tell us that they were just there a few weeks prior doing an art program with the children.

When the meal is finished, they invite us back to their studio, which is not far. The studio doubles as a gallery and one of the artists, Tamrat, is on exhibit. We take time and view the exhibition and he offers some explanations. His skill is undeniable. We are duly impressed.

Then he takes us downstairs to the studio space and we continue the conversation. The studio feels as blessed as any place of worship. We discuss how religion changes over time and the artists’ work of preserving the cultural symbols of a people. We also view photos of the art workshop they did with the children at Awra Amba. After hours of conversation, he gifts us with 2 pieces of work made on leather, one for each of us. We make plans to see each other when we return to Addis. We agree that there must be travel gods that help travelers find the people they should meet on their journeys.

The next day we leave early in the morning to go to a city called Bahir Dar, where we will be for the next few days before finally visiting Awra Amba.

When we leave, we wonder how our day unfolded so magically. How did we meet such a wonderful group of people who so graciously shared their art, food, and company with us when we only set out to find bobby pins and chapstick? The travel gods are undoubtedly at work.

The art studio and gallery

Looking at photos of the workshop at Awra Amba

Talking to our new friend, Tamrat

Tamrat holding some of his work. These pieces are etched in wood.

Later that night, Mat mentioned to Ras that he was hoping to find some vinyl records of Ethiopian music. Ras lit up. It turns out that vinyl is extremely hard to find in Ethiopia. But only earlier that day he met a man who is a huge collector of vinyl and told Ras to please give his information to anyone he meets. We immediately go to meet the man. He brings us into a space filled with original out of print vinyls of Ethiopian music. Most of the music was only available in Ethiopia up until a few years ago, but this man, had been selling these records and the tunes had been sampled, releasing the sounds on the international stage for the first time ever. This is the man responsible for Mat ever hearing Ethiopian music in the first place. Mat is in heaven. He listens and listens and makes his final choices.

Once again, we are in awe at the way our time in this strange city has unfolded. I know it sounds strange, but it’s hard not to believe that there are indeed travel gods lighting our way some days. Things magically work out, we meet just the right people, we save a few bucks, we find what we were looking for, and we are never lost for long.

The man responsible for getting Ethiopian music to the world

Making his selections

Checking out the goods