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Published: February 23rd 2010
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Back in Ethiopia and back to unscrupulous Ethiopian cheek. Having crossed between the dusty border shacks, R and I are offered a lift for the first leg of the journey to Harar by a couple of Ethiopian NGOs working for Save the Children. Of course, when we are inside they rather uncharitably ask for four times the bus fare. We opt for pleb transport after all, during which R's poor pack is the victim of yet another vigorous police search. The authorities are out in force in this region (Ethiopia’s Somali province) and when we change at Jijiga there are no fewer than seven police checks before we are even properly out of the town. Some of these guys in camo gear stand barely a hundred metres apart and on five occasions all men on the bus must empty out onto the street to have their IDs examined. The whole process is farcically overzealous.
I am quite excited about seeing Harar but it does not make a good first impression. We have had to take three different transports and cross a border in one day so although the distance covered is not huge we still arrive after dark. There
is a worrying lack of accommodation due to a "big meeting" happening in town (about which nobody can ever give us any concrete information), which packs out the place. After some fruitless searching of reputable options we find a thoroughly sketchy place down an alleyway that doubles as a noisy, but empty bar. We are led there by the owner, who we see standing on the street corner. The two guys he is with then ask for money for "showing" us the place, despite the fact that they gave no useful input and the joint is barely 10m off the main drag. I refuse and try to remain polite but they are less amiable, parting with the standard warning word of "dangerous" to suggest my stubbornness might have unpleasant repercussions. I'm not a little concerned; given that my bedroom door is an ailing, flimsy contraption with a significant crack through which I can be viewed from the outside when sleeping, and furthermore the chumminess between these two shady characters and the equally dodgy owner is very worrying. When the boss asks for our passports, saying they must be taken for a number of hours to be checked by the police
Ethiopian sunset
On the way from the border to Harar (a requirement I have yet to encounter elsewhere in this country), I insist on coming with him. He is too keen to get the documents in his greasy palm and get away from us, and when it becomes apparent that he really cannot shake me he hands them back saying it does not actually matter after all. I am convinced our passports would have mysteriously been "lost" and held to ransom.
Harar during the daytime is a far more pleasant experience and I end up liking the place a lot. It is a small town and easily explored by foot in one day. We do just that, happily getting lost amongst the 368 narrow alleyways of the old walled town (crammed into one square kilometre), with their medieval feel. It radiates colour, is full of varied mosques - Harar is the world's fourth holiest Muslim settlement - and is a photographer's wet dream. Despite its religious status it seems quite a liberal town with a modern outlook, if not modern amenities (there is no running water to be found anywhere and the place does smell a bit iffy). Many of the ladies wear incongruent figure hugging clothes with
their headscarves. The streets are packed with tailors and people selling junk of all kinds. Many of the women in the market by the Shoa gate display nothing more than a tiny pile of onions or garlic. How they plan on making any money I don't know, but I imagine they set up just for the communal atmosphere and sociability that comes with life at an African market.
The charm of the place is helped by a lack of hassle by Ethiopian standards. We are approached by a number of would be guides, all conveniently (for them) called Abdul, which was a name recommended in the old LP, but they are not pushy. There also appears to be a few screws loose in Harar and we are obliged to deal with a number of eccentric people of all ages who harangue us good-naturedly in Amharic, or their local dialect, irrespective of our incomprehension. Craziest of all are the children. At one point we pass a side-street and suddenly from behind we hear a roar of "FARAAAANJOOOO" (its ‘faranjo’ here rather than the usual ‘faranji’), clearly audible before a child tsunami comes exploding round the corner to bounce alongside
us excitedly, grabbing at our hands and calling out to us.
R is on a much tighter schedule and must leave that night for Addis. I am a little concerned that the hotel manager is aware of this and that the place has now emptied apart from me. I subdue any worries by distracting myself with Harar's best known attraction; the night feeding of hyenas on the outskirts of the town. I won't lie, it is very much a tourist spectacle and a recent tradition only about sixty years old, but it is still entertaining to watch. The hyenas are fairly well behaved, if opportunistic and clearly ravenous, and the hyena man consents to let me have a go. This is fantastic because I can really sense the immense jaw power and upper body strength of these villainous beasts as they lunge forward to swallow the raw meat hanging from a stick in my mouth, their hot breath wafting over my petrified face.
After only one full day I feel satisfied with my time in Harar and, having not suffered a much feared midnight knifing, I hop on board a bus in the early morning. Time
to go west.
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cultural comparisons
Rimbaud was mad too, a similarly eloquent writer, but your photos are better than his.