This is a guest post by Mallika Sobti.
By March, I was two months into my five-month Ethiopia stint, and the loneliness of the fieldwork had me feeling a little raw. I decided to hit the road. Something about throwing yourself at an unfamiliar place, knowing you’re going to have to shove your way through some sticky situations, has a way of making you feel empowered.
I happened to be in Amhara with an extra Saturday on my hands before the flight back to Addis, and an overnighter to the historic town of Gondar seemed like a no-brainer. The valley city was famed for its medieval castles, towering Eucalyptus forests (thank you Haile Selassie, and thank you Madagascar), the chance to turn the dial back a few notches for a tired, bored consultant. I showed up at the mini-bus station after a frigid early morning tuk-tuk ride, bracing not for the cold, but for the inevitable pushing, pulling, shouting, and shielding that makes mini-bus stops what they are. Within minutes I was whisked into the front seat – a position of privilege in public transport, reserved for the powerful or rich, and therefore, the way things go, almost always for a man.
Maybe I let that get to my head a little, because I nodded-off to sleep with my backpack at my feet and my phone in my hand like a rookie. As I got off the bus in Gondar and put my take-no-shit face on for the next tuk-tuk negotiation, I was hit with the same sinking feeling I’d had every time I’d had a phone or wallet stolen before – it’s gone. No amount of scrimmaging through my bag was going to turn my wallet up, because the tiny man to my right on the bus was probably having a great time somewhere counting up my Birr and dollars and scrutinizing the two strange figures he saw in my favorite polaroid of Mike and I. I felt stupid for having waved him goodbye so cheerily when he got off the bus, his beaming smile back clearly less a wish-you-well than a haha-got-you-sucker!
I was glad for 600 Birr I had in the back pocket of my jeans. A bed at the Israeli-hippies’ spot will be 300, and I can probably manage dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow for 50. Maybe if I sweet-talk my way into some cheap rides to get around the city, I’ll still be left with the 50 Birr I need to get back to Amhara and catch my flight tomorrow. I hiked my backpack up, put away the mental calculations and took my first steps and into the city.
In the end, some places are so beautiful that you mostly remember the good stuff. In five, or ten, or twenty years, when I think back to that weekend in Gondar, I’ll probably remember that I had a wallet stolen. But mostly I’ll remember the winding drive through the stunning Amhara highlands, forgetting how difficult the last few weeks had been as I craned my neck to try and see the massive stone monoliths in their full glory. I’ll remember being humbled by the history of 12th Century Gondar, the devotion of the church keeper, and the realization that a long line of upright men like him kept those ancient walls firm and the cherubic faces of Debre Birhane Selassie glowing. I’ll remember the drive back, breathing in the cool and the pine and eucalyptus, knowing that I had in fact shoved my way through some sticky situations that weekend.
And if I’m lucky, I’ll remember that singularly sweet freedom of being young, and on the road, and alone.