We woke up to smooth jazz at 3:45am. After making the necessary stops
in the bathroom, we made our way out into the driveway. Our friend
Seyoum (see-ume) soon arrived with entourage in tow; a taxi driver and
a monster of an Ethiopian for our personal protection (seriously).
We piled into two small vehicles with our eleven total bags. We raced
through the strangely deserted streets of Addis and screeched to a
halt at the bus station. By bus station we mean gravel parking lot
with sixty aging buses parked in it. We stood and waited in the
pre-dawn chill. Forty-five minutes later the stampede began with the
opening of the gates. While there was no audible gunshot, we were
certain there was some incredible prize to be had at the end of this
sprint.
We played roulette to try and find the right bus. Lost in the first
round, won the second. That is, if you call a twelve hour bus ride a
win. Like the proverbial Moses, our guard stepped onto the bus and
cleared us the dry land of three free seats (three seats, but only
five cheeks). Nolan, Davy Crocket, was left to hold the Alamo that was
our block of seats. Justin, Fletch, Seyoum, and our bodyguard haggled
in a spewing cloud of diesel fumes (let's just say there are very few
emissions tests in Ethiopia) with the "luggage attendants" to obtain a
decent price for our luggage transport. After being threatened by
exposure to the media and the government by Seyoum, they agreed on a
semi-decent price for us ferrangies (foreigners).
Our bus, packed with seventy people, would only comfortably carry
fifty people back in the land of the free and the home of the brave
(also butter and cheese). The passengers were all ready to leave at
six a.m. After the sun rose around seven, the bus driver finally
decided it was prime time to pull out. We were on the bus to Gimbie!
Approximately one half mile down the road, we found out that we were
actually on the bus to the shell station down the road where would
make a bus swap. What is a bus swap you ask? A bus swap is where
every single person on the bus starts yelling, then rioting, then
pushing, then shoving, and eventually spilling out of one bus and into
a new one. Who would be left on this bus? Not these ferrangies. Justin
elbowed an elderly lady in the kisser. Fletch trampled a small child.
Nolan's meek and mild temperament compelled him to allow every person
to leave the bus before him. Lucky for him, Justin and Fletch clawed
and scratched their way into decent seats. Now we were on the bus to
Gimbie…..at eight a.m.
Hour one and two were smooth sailing. We enjoyed the scenery, the
paved road, and the best company. We soon reached Ambo. Little did we
know that this breakfast stop would be our only one of the day. Nolan,
after waiting for everyone else to push by, got off the bus to see
what he find for food. After being propositioned by many beggars, he
came back to with three oranges.
Soon we were on the road again, but the rest of the trip would be much
different. The first noticeable change was that the smooth pavement
became rough gravel. The second big change was the heat increase
created by the rising sun. It soon became clear that everyone in the
bus was strictly adhering to the national no-open-window policy. They
have a fear that the open air carries malaria, so lack of oxygen and
extreme heat is apparently the new cure for it.
Around hour three, a lava flow of regurgitated injera (the national
sour flatbread) started flowing under our seat. The volcano? A one
hundred and forty year old lady, hunched forward in the seat in front
of us, attacking Fletcher's backpack with her spew.
Nolan caught a stiff case of the extremely contagious regurgitinitis,
or in layman's terms, he felt extremely green and nauseous. But Fletch
and Justin had stomachs of iron, and felt fine, other then being faint
and dizzy from lack of food, water, oxygen, and space. The presence of
the dinosaur's vomit wasn't helpful either. The dinosaur was faithful
in spewing every hour or so, until we reached Gimbie. The rolling
landscape moseyed by in a green haze. We had no idea how long we would
be kept prisoners on this rolling deathtrap. Hundreds of hours passed.
Nolan, inspired by the dinosaur, made a break for the window and
hurled cheddar cheese peanut butter crackers all over the side of our
"bus". He felt like a new man. Just in time to pull into Gimbie. We
made a friend on the bus, named Olliot, who helped us successfully
procure all of our luggage off the roof, and into our possession for a
non-ferrangie price. We made it to Gimbie! Unfortunately, we were not
greeted by the hospital welcoming committee, and it more looked like
we were the new circus freaks in town. Three white boys, with eleven
pieces of luggage equals fresh meat. Thankfully, Olliot flagged down a
blue donkey (a taxi) and we stuffed all of our junk inside. We then
rode the quarter mile to the hospital in mad style. We crashed landed
at the front gate, and ended the most uncomfortable, yet memorable day
of travel in all three of our life histories.
The End.
in the bathroom, we made our way out into the driveway. Our friend
Seyoum (see-ume) soon arrived with entourage in tow; a taxi driver and
a monster of an Ethiopian for our personal protection (seriously).
We piled into two small vehicles with our eleven total bags. We raced
through the strangely deserted streets of Addis and screeched to a
halt at the bus station. By bus station we mean gravel parking lot
with sixty aging buses parked in it. We stood and waited in the
pre-dawn chill. Forty-five minutes later the stampede began with the
opening of the gates. While there was no audible gunshot, we were
certain there was some incredible prize to be had at the end of this
sprint.
We played roulette to try and find the right bus. Lost in the first
round, won the second. That is, if you call a twelve hour bus ride a
win. Like the proverbial Moses, our guard stepped onto the bus and
cleared us the dry land of three free seats (three seats, but only
five cheeks). Nolan, Davy Crocket, was left to hold the Alamo that was
our block of seats. Justin, Fletch, Seyoum, and our bodyguard haggled
in a spewing cloud of diesel fumes (let's just say there are very few
emissions tests in Ethiopia) with the "luggage attendants" to obtain a
decent price for our luggage transport. After being threatened by
exposure to the media and the government by Seyoum, they agreed on a
semi-decent price for us ferrangies (foreigners).
Our bus, packed with seventy people, would only comfortably carry
fifty people back in the land of the free and the home of the brave
(also butter and cheese). The passengers were all ready to leave at
six a.m. After the sun rose around seven, the bus driver finally
decided it was prime time to pull out. We were on the bus to Gimbie!
Approximately one half mile down the road, we found out that we were
actually on the bus to the shell station down the road where would
make a bus swap. What is a bus swap you ask? A bus swap is where
every single person on the bus starts yelling, then rioting, then
pushing, then shoving, and eventually spilling out of one bus and into
a new one. Who would be left on this bus? Not these ferrangies. Justin
elbowed an elderly lady in the kisser. Fletch trampled a small child.
Nolan's meek and mild temperament compelled him to allow every person
to leave the bus before him. Lucky for him, Justin and Fletch clawed
and scratched their way into decent seats. Now we were on the bus to
Gimbie…..at eight a.m.
Hour one and two were smooth sailing. We enjoyed the scenery, the
paved road, and the best company. We soon reached Ambo. Little did we
know that this breakfast stop would be our only one of the day. Nolan,
after waiting for everyone else to push by, got off the bus to see
what he find for food. After being propositioned by many beggars, he
came back to with three oranges.
Soon we were on the road again, but the rest of the trip would be much
different. The first noticeable change was that the smooth pavement
became rough gravel. The second big change was the heat increase
created by the rising sun. It soon became clear that everyone in the
bus was strictly adhering to the national no-open-window policy. They
have a fear that the open air carries malaria, so lack of oxygen and
extreme heat is apparently the new cure for it.
Around hour three, a lava flow of regurgitated injera (the national
sour flatbread) started flowing under our seat. The volcano? A one
hundred and forty year old lady, hunched forward in the seat in front
of us, attacking Fletcher's backpack with her spew.
Nolan caught a stiff case of the extremely contagious regurgitinitis,
or in layman's terms, he felt extremely green and nauseous. But Fletch
and Justin had stomachs of iron, and felt fine, other then being faint
and dizzy from lack of food, water, oxygen, and space. The presence of
the dinosaur's vomit wasn't helpful either. The dinosaur was faithful
in spewing every hour or so, until we reached Gimbie. The rolling
landscape moseyed by in a green haze. We had no idea how long we would
be kept prisoners on this rolling deathtrap. Hundreds of hours passed.
Nolan, inspired by the dinosaur, made a break for the window and
hurled cheddar cheese peanut butter crackers all over the side of our
"bus". He felt like a new man. Just in time to pull into Gimbie. We
made a friend on the bus, named Olliot, who helped us successfully
procure all of our luggage off the roof, and into our possession for a
non-ferrangie price. We made it to Gimbie! Unfortunately, we were not
greeted by the hospital welcoming committee, and it more looked like
we were the new circus freaks in town. Three white boys, with eleven
pieces of luggage equals fresh meat. Thankfully, Olliot flagged down a
blue donkey (a taxi) and we stuffed all of our junk inside. We then
rode the quarter mile to the hospital in mad style. We crashed landed
at the front gate, and ended the most uncomfortable, yet memorable day
of travel in all three of our life histories.
The End.
1 comment:
nolan that is an intense story! you wrote it out so good too! i didn't know you had a blog but it's cool to find it.. you're all in my prayers.
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