A nine-hour journey, a heavy cold, a whirl of airport activity and discussions with interesting travellers left me feeling drained as I arrived in Addis Ababa. My welcome was clouded by the news that my backpack had decided to vacation somewhere else. With no clothes, I checked into the National Hotel a clean, but smelly place. As I wondered, I was befriended by young people keen to introduce me to a tea ceremony, which soon became a sting. The National bar introduced me to shoulder dancing before keeping me awake all night with stereophonic sound effects as the party moved round from bar to bar. I changed hotel next day.

My first impressions were of a reserved, quiet people with gentle manners, and a sense of some order to daily life in the streets. Minibuses stopped at regulated stops, trash was not dropped, there was not the frantic hurry of most developing cities. This did not stop the wave of scam attempts. My sob story of a lost bag was a useful shield. A less tranquil visit to the disappointing Mercado was followed by a power cut in the hotel during which the bulldog spirit pulled together some interesting companions - a young French-Canadian sent off, as one of eight, with a video camera by Canadian T.V. to make short documentaries. We were joined by a young Aussie and an IBM yank with a guide which led to an enjoyable bar crawl around the area. As I drifted to sleep, the loud music had followed me as it moved from bar to bar; this was party city.

Addis to Dire Dawa by Train (to the East)

I rose early to get to the train station for a ticket. The minibus boy failed to mention that his bus went all round town before reaching the station, where the expected crush was non-existent. The only problem was that it took the puffed-up army of officials one and a half hours to prepare to sell tickets. Trainee tyrants were deployed to boss people around in the docile queue. A ticket eventually arrived.

Back at Ethiopian Airways, the bag had still not arrived, come back in an hour. I was, instead, directed to the Palace Church where I came upon a biblical scene from a Hollywood epic. A sea of humanity all dressed from head to toe in flowing white robes and shawls, standing, sitting, queuing to get into the church to pray over the reputed Ark of the Covenant. The old, the blind, lepers and the 'cripples' were there to receive alms from the muted and respectful faithful.

My transcendent state did not survive my return to Ethiopian Airline where despite an extremely calm and impressive supervisor trying to solve three crises simultaneously, I was told that I must go to the airport to claim my bag from customs. Time was getting short by the time I left the airport with bag on back. Two oil men gave me a ride in their taxi and pressed a voucher on me for a room at the Hilton, which they could not use. I did not want it, I was off to Dire, but the young Aussie was pleased at the thought of a night of luxury.

In spite of increasing pressure of time, I managed a meal, packed and reached town in good time for the train. I walked the steep street up to the station, where a loafing man pointed at my back,

"Two young men were following you."

I took my backpack off to find that it had been expertly slashed along the zip. This backpack was not doing well thus far. Nothing was missing and my irritation at the challenge was mollified by thankfulness that the knife had not been used on me and I still had time to do emergency repairs with my sewing kit.

The first-class carriage was much the same as second class, except that the ripped seats were softer. Unconvincing guards with guns walked up and down the carriage, occasionally congregating to chin wag and swop stories. A shy, friendly man sat down next to me, desperately keen to join in with the boys, but didn't know how and sank back into his isolation after a while. At each stop, the train comes under siege from sellers, chancers and thieves and occasionally a person is thrown from the train. A sudden smell of cigarette smoke reminded me that there was very little smoking, no one in my carriage smoked.

Next morning the train rolled in, with sleep having been better than expected, if a little shallow. We wearily trudged to the station exit to find the gates closed. A long queue formed on either side with people packed in like sardines. I was near the front of the queue but soon found myself moving backwards as people crushed in at the front. The inevitable officious guard appeared and threw people around until a space appeared at the front. As he stood back to admire his work a small man of 50-60 years made a dash for the exit. Just in time he was grabbed by the guard who, pushed him around and up the platform. As if this was not enough for the poor man a tall woman emerged from the train spitting venom - he had tried to steal her case. After a verbal mauling he slunk into the background. I had the embarrassment of being spotted and ushered through at the head of the queue.

As I walked to the market, I was accompanied by the first of several pleasant young men. Heading across the river bridge, there was no river, only a young man running cattle along the dry riverbed in a cloud of dust. There were many beggars, one dropped his trousers to show me the hernia that disturbed him. This was not a place of easy living. The market was disappointingly full of western consumer goods.

Harar and Nasret

Harah was an old dusty bustling town with a khat market. There had been a shortage of khat, a chewing plant with mild narcotic properties, much fancied by truck drivers to help them stay awake. Large numbers had arrived waiting for the next shipment to arrive. The big tourist attraction was the famous men who fed wild hyenas with meat taken from their mouths. I had not left enough time for this and instead spent the evening chatting with a surprisingly well-informed young man of 19 years who knew all about Tony Blair, Princess Di, football trade balances etc, along with views on colonialism. Sleep deprivation continued with bar music until 2.30 followed by the night shift, with a drummer until 4.00

Nevertheless, up at 5.00, beginning to understand the need for khat. I was first onto the bus followed by a deluge of passengers, friends, family, thieves and general low life. It looked like chaos but little by little people settled into their places, friends and relatives left and luggage was magically distributed around the bus. Peace and gentle calm settled on the congregation until...a roadblock, one of three police checks. The obligatory tyrannical policemen let loose their inner oppression casting suitcases and clothes from the roof, trampling belongings, and being generally unpleasant. This led to no apparent action or long-term distress.

Nasret turned out to be an antidote to Harar, with an, almost, European feel, wide streets and modern shops. The hotel was comparatively luxurious and provided a spa experience for the sleep-deprived traveller. The Awash River provided a lovely walk, past an absent charcoal burner's site with an earth oven. He had dug out a small cave at the foot of a steep cliff. I climbed up the cliff towards the pasture above, just avoiding treading on a monitor lizard. A path at the top led to an artesian well pipe with water at a very hot bath temperature - luxury.

Nasret/Soder provided a clever sting. As I sat on the bus a man collected the fare. Fifteen minutes later I was asked again for the fare, the first was a scam.

Bahar Dar

Another 5.30 start. I was to take the first flight in a bundle of four tickets created for tourists to manage the distances in this huge country. I thought I would need a taxi and knocked on the concierge's door. It was the wrong door, behind which a rather bemused and disgruntled Ethiopian guest was trying to sleep. In fact, a friendly and honest minibus took me to the airport, where I found Ethiopian Airways at their most chaotic. Demand had required them to lay on two extra planes, but with no extra brain cells for the staff. One and a half hours later the plane left.

The mini-bus boy tried to drop me at two hotels on the way, but I got to the centre of town, where I was immediately surrounded by a squawking gaggle of kids. One was Tom, a 17-year-old boy who tells me he guides tourists by day and goes to school at night. He is one of eight children and chose to live on his wits in town rather than languish in rural poverty. His English is excellent and he is at once, brightly extravert, sharp as a pin, but also shy and easily embarrassed. He turned out to be a charming companion all day.

Bahar Dar is a beautiful lake side city with palm lined streets at the edge of Lake Tana containing fresco decorated monasteries accessible only by boat. We went to lake to look at possibilities, and I quickly decided that I didn't want to be part of the 'monasteries at any price' trail. Instead, we cycled to the Haile Salasi Palace at Bezite Hill, which was not accessible but was set in a vista of beautiful views, baboons, hippos and crocodiles. At the market were papyrus boat builders, who refused to have their photo taken. Tom explained that they and the female basket makers were the wild outsiders of the town from the Wolaitta tribe (my spelling).

"if you went to their village and shouted 'Wolaitta', hundreds of them would come out and shout insults and kick you. People don't like them because they eat any animal, even crocodile." this seemed to be linked to religious doctrine. He went on to explain,

"Men and women keep their own money separate. Men get money from fishing and women from baskets. If they want something for the home both put money in". How modern.

It seemed that they were treated rather like 'gypsies' in U.K. and I thought perhaps the name Wolaitta was actually a derogatory term. I later learned that they were a large ethnic group with a dynastic heritage back to at least the Thirteenth Century and were a proud people who influenced music and agriculture.

By evening, I was understanding the tourist domination of local structures. Guides were paid small amounts to deliver tourists to the real money makers the tour companies. Competition led to a bewildering array of offers; counter offers and bad mouthing of other guides. I must be a disappointment to these young men. Luckily, I escaped the scrum in a good restaurant with one-string fiddle playing and dancing.

Having to wash in a bucket due to water shortages Tom and I left a bit late for a trip to the waterfall at Tis Abay, where the Blue Nile begins its journey. When we reached the bus station there were no buses in sight. Tom found out that three had departed before eight a.m., so we spent two hours watching the bus boys play fighting in their varied forms of filthy tribal clothes and headwear. One boy had one leg and crutch but joined enthusiastically in the rough and tumble. I noticed that an orderly queue had formed, although the bus had not yet appeared. I felt some comfort at this very British approach to queuing. After a few minutes the bus arrived and pulled to a stop by the side of the side of the queue. All hell broke loose. The previously docile queue formed into a pushing, pulling, mauling bundle of bodies, wedging itself into the door and gradually expanding to fill the whole bus. It was here that the scrapping bus boys displayed their skills. As I disdainfully stayed aloof from the fray, a boy hired by Tom, had managed to fight through the scrum to grab a seat. He smilingly handed over his place.

The long and bumpy road trip was complicated by a dispute with a smaller pick-up backing into our bus, breaking a window. Tis Abay was an attractive traditional village with wide dirt tracks and wattle and daub huts. Tom immediately tries to interest me in an expensive papyrus boat ride to the falls, but I stubbornly stuck to my plan to walk to the falls. For the first time we had a frosty relationship as he sulks for the rest of the day and is chided by the village boys for failing to deliver the goods. The village was populated by boys trying to make a buck by overcharging tourists. The falls were pleasant, if not spectacular, but the walk alongside the falls made it all worthwhile.

At the end of the day we waited for, what I later discovered, was the last bus back. By now we knew what to expect and a bus boy was hired. Eventually, we make it onto the bus following a truly Olympian performance by our boy. It took the conductor 15 minutes to clear the multitude of unlucky, would-be passengers. I felt a pang of relief. Five minutes along the road I heard panting behind me. I looked round to see a young woman lying across the passengers on the back seat, her eyes rolling and her breathing heavy and panting. I bring my first-aid training to the fore and immediately diagnose either epileptic fit or overheating. I sought a second opinion from Tom who informed me that she was pregnant and in labour. Her contractions were, now, every 15-20 minutes.

Women on the bus all have various expressions of concern, but none seem keen to become practically involved. In this serious situation, an element of farce creeps in as I see the conductor collecting a fare from the pregnancy party. As we pull into Bahir Dar the baby has not been born. My amusement at the bizarre fare collection soon turned to anger and upset when Tom explained that the conductor had threatened to turn them off the bus unless they handed over the money they had saved for the hospital fees - a truly evil act. The poor confused, timid farmers had nothing left and stood dazed at the bus station. The amount was life changing for them, but a small amount for a wealthy westerner. Tom gave them most of what had been lost. I felt rather pathetic at not challenging the conductor but knew better than to involve myself in something that I do not understand. I hope that she had a successful birth but never knew.

That evening, I met up with a Polish man, who the boys took an instant dislike to. Perhaps, he was stealing their tourist. He turned out to be studying Ethiopian Christian Orthodox religion for his PhD. He was an engaging evening companion and I learned a lot

Hebrew Routes

Although having much in common with Russian, Polish and Greek Orthodox traditions, it maintains Hebrew connections in birth and other rituals

• Boys are circumcised at 8 days

• Kissing of temple walls

• Church construction is similar to Hebrew temples

• Priest headwear is similar to a Rabbi's

Gideon. His Ethiopian companion confirmed that he felt more in common with the Hebrew background and western tradition than he did with black African tradition.

Arc of the Covenant

As I had witnessed in Addis, it is an Ethiopian tradition. Prayer has a huge power, and the Passion was introduced by monks.

Drums

Are part of ceremonial service on Saint Days

We spent the whole evening discussing religion, churches, mysticism, drugs, racism and the Russian Mafia. He had also been attacked in Addis and was worried by rising gang violence.

Gondar

A nice, warm and hassle-free farewell to Tom and the boys and an untroubled trip to the airport, where I found a 17-seater propeller plane that struggled with air pockets as we crossed mountains, making us all secretly relieved to be landing.

Gondar has a part in Ethiopian history, having been founded in the seventeenth century, becoming its third capital city. My impression, however, is not of a grand city, but a small dusty place where staff at overpriced hotels don't seem to care if you take room or not. I was immediately colonised by a gaggle of children and adolescents, who guided me to the 'best' restaurant which left me unsure, because it had no sign and we seemed to be sitting in someone's front room, watching T.V.

Back in town the boys began to tell me of their problems. Two had been kicked out of Eritrea, one said that his father had been killed. A third says that he sleeps on the street because if he stays at home he will be forced to leave school to join the army in the latest Ethiopia/Eritrea war. The street boys carry sticks to ward off vicious dogs that maraud at night. He dreams of studying geology, but the library has only two books on rocks. We have no idea what they go through. There are always games of football with balls made of wound rags while they watch fabulously wealthy English teams on T.V.

Next day I was up bright and early for a bucket wash and a trip to the Church of Debra Birhan Selasi. The lovely walk led to an attractive old church with childlike frescos depicting biblical stories in reds, orange and burnt ochre. They are a distinctive Ethiopian style lacking perspective, but bold in colour. My gaze was enriched by the accompaniment of and chanting.

After lunch, it was time for the palace, where the boys are lying in wait. I found the Palace closed for lunch, so my gang visited the market in time to see a donkey, killed by a car, laying on the back of a cart. The whole place was heaving with people and animals. By now the boys and me were best mates, but I could not see a group visit to the Palace being desirable. I had a brainwave.

"Do you boys like the cinema?", they enthusiastically agreed they did but seldom had the money to go.

A few cheap tickets, a cheery wave and I was free to race to the Palace and ancient pool. The Fasil Ghebbi fortress (Royal Enclosure) is a World Heritage site of castles, halls and palaces. As a trading centre it had developed Muslim and Jewish quarters. Before I had finished, a boy, who had run two kilometres to find me turned up. My annoyance, having so successfully diverted the gang, turned quickly to compassion as I remembered the ever-present poverty carried by every child. I bought him some bread and samosa. As ever, the clumsy westerner had blundered into the territory of unforeseen consequences. Jealousy was never far away and immediately an older boy wanted to hit him and a challenged woman who wandered around with her left breast hanging out picked up a stone to throw at him until he handed her a small piece of bread. I sent him back to town in a taxi and walked up hill towards the wartime Italian viewing point below the posh hotel. I had walked into 'A Tale of Two Cities'. There, on the back of a Police pick-up truck was a handcuffed, paunchy, bald, middle-aged man naked from the waist up. He was surrounded by men, presumably policemen, trying to drape a sports jacket over his shoulders, rather than releasing his arms to fit the sleeves. Local boys told me there had been an incident in town last night. Meanwhile the sun was beginning to set at the viewing point changing the colours on the surrounding hills from deep ochres through to pinks, while golden-backed eagles, tick-billed ravens, pied-crows and egrets wheeled away below. My gang chased me in the evening, eager to make the most of their short time with the tourist, but I was on a tour of restaurants, looking for veggie meals. Having tried the decaying grandeur of the Italian fascist Foggera, a delightful incense-burning place opposite and yesterday's front room near the Palace I found The Cultural, a narrow room of breeze blocks, transformed by wall rugs and bamboo-backed benches. I ate with some local, better-off young men who were keen to share their views. They talked of the Eritrean leader's demands for Ethiopian land. They had love for and pride in their country and were willing to fight but liked the Eritrean people and wanted peace. They felt that people were mainly pleased with the current government, but when pressed for why, they picked out road building and generally trying to do things for the poor. I had little sense that government played a major role in everyday life and all roads led back to the war with Eritrea.

Lalibela

Lalibela is yet another World Heritage Site, a wonder of twelfth and thirteenth century craftsmanship and imagination. Reputedly, built as a representation of Jerusalem the churches are hewn from the rock in the far north of Ethiopia. Lalibela is, definitely, a must see for tourists and was a mixture of the traditional and tourist trade. Government plans to build a road would change the balance completely.

Rather than the gaggle of boys from previous towns I was met by phalanx of organised tour guides. I settled on Habbold who turned out to be the agent and he left me with a shy, willing young man who I warmed to at once. We started immediately and climbed to a monastery at 4,000 feet along an arduous trail with stunning views all the way. Even the shepherds have managed to develop a tourist income earner by selling woven hats, small shoulder bags, crystals and soft drinks. The shepherd boys are young and wear distinctive pill box hats with a horse tail plume on top. They are shyly friendly and even, respectful. Small children follow and whisper to avoid a telling off by the guide.

On the way Habtuma told me of his previous life as a child shepherd on a remote farm in the mountains. He had to tend flocks all day and tried to fit learning around that but found it difficult because the sheep wandered. He also had to travel miles collect fuel from a forest, where, occasionally, the owner would catch him and turn him away. He said it was unrelentingly hard and his parents preferred him to work rather than study. There were few people living anywhere near, and those that did lived in suspicion of each other which often spilled into blood vendettas. I had read Devla Murphy's account of Ethiopian Highlanders having a culture of killing. Habtuma agreed and went on to tell his own tale. Some three years earlier two men had abducted the wife of a young farmer. He chased after them and fought with them. They were joined by two other men, and the young farmer had only a sick friend to help him. The wife and her sister also fought. The young man was kicked to death. The young man's brothers came for revenge, and a gun battle ensued. Habtuma, a child was caught in the middle with his sheep and cattle.

"There were bullets flying over me and was trying to get the sheep and cattle away. I was scared and I crouched low."

Incredibly, no-one was hurt and the police came to arrest the husband's killers. Not satisfied the dead man's brothers sought more satisfaction, they went after the remaining brothers, crippling one and killing at least one more. They too ended in jail. The killing can go on for many generations and is usually ended by families sitting on opposite banks of a river, killing and cooking a goat and exchanging them as ritual gifts.

It seemed as though the smallest slight leads to violence - name calling, accusations, disputes over grazing etc. Habtuma's family finally decided to sell up and move into Lalibela to escape this. We have no idea.

"They now think my education is important."

The day finished with a gorgeous view off the sun setting behind the mountains and an evening of food and masingo fiddle playing. Cow horns for coat pegs

Another 5.30 start next day to see the churches before the rush. It was also a feast day at St Michael's Church, where another mediaeval biblical scene unfolded. We entered a world of white robes, head scarves, incense, drums and almost funeral paced drone-chanting. This all took place in the dingy rock-hewn church with men and women pushing in and out of the church, kissing walls, praying or just sitting. Men formed the main circle (women can be nuns but not priests) and each held a pole with a metal T at the tip and shakers were distributed which were jerked together in slow rhythm to match the chant, rather than shaken freely. Two young boys aged no more than 10-12 years manfully played the big drums, keeping the same mournful beat. The drums have a wide bass end and another narrow treble end. Singing went on until 11.00. Habtuma joined me for a heavily touristed trail around the Eastern churches and by evening I was churched out.

The great thing is that tourism had not displaced religion. This Orthodox thing is dreadfully serious stuff. At the epicentre the whole priestly bureaucracy is in charge of the buildings, tradition and behaviour of people in the churches. Deacons ape the behaviour and values of the priests, earnestly carrying Bibles and ensuring nothing leaves the church structure, although last year it was reported that they lost a 7 kg gold cross. Artefacts are central and all aspects of the church, even doors and windows are related to the cross, the trinity and the disciples. The devout congregation can be found praying for hours on end in various corners. Magical stories also play a central role, with angels said to have built the churches.

Interestingly, young men were very resistant to information from outside their direct experience. The official guidebook told how original drapes were in the Addis Museum, but Habtuma would have nothing of it because the priest had heard nothing of it. A poem was rejected because they had not heard it before. Never change Lalibela.

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Axum

The ancient centre of the Aksumite Empire and one of the first Christian states. Up early to catch the plane; we were told due to the causing restricted air space. My cynical mind thought lack of tourist bookings might be more important. On arrival my 'intelligence' told me that the airport was only 200 metres from town. A friendly anti-aircraft gun crew directed me to the airport exit. At the gate I failed to spot the warning signs, the group locals by the gate waiting, a vague pointing up the hill by a guide; I began to walk and walk. After about 3 km I decided that town was a bit further than I thought, bus I let a bus and truck pass as I was enjoying the flat rural scenes of pastoral activity, harvesting, and donkeys passing. As the sun got hotter I u to question my decision making. It still looked like 2-3 kms to the start of town. A lorry pulled up. Language was a problem, but I deciphered that he was going to Axum, and I decided to trust it, only too pleased to be out of the sun. It started to get out of hand when the lorry turned off the main road, the driver indicating he would return to Axum. Still, it felt good as we passed through village scenes, two men winnowing the wheat with wooden pitch forks, bullocks treading/threshing straw and clay ovens in front of houses. We finally delivered a load of sand to a building site where the labourers were conspicuously unimpressed by my cheery greeting. Eventually, we rolled into Axum, and the driver is only too helpful. I tried to ask how much he wanted for the ride. I heard him say 15br, which I thought was bit steep for a short ride and offered 10 br. He disdainfully shook his head and said 30br (he had actually started at 50 br). I got down from the cab to a now convening group of locals who push the driver's case. I eventually handed him the 10 br and stalked off towards to hotel with a posse of adolescents in close order.

The hotel was a welcome haven after bucket washing, offering luxurious hot water, cleanliness and peace and quiet. I decided to use the afternoon to make a start towards my duty to see the historical sites. A boy soon attached himself. I was not in the mood for company following my morning travails.

"I will not pay you or anyone else any money today"

"I do not want money; I want to practice my English."

This was the prelude to an endless stream of sob stories and veiled requests that left me even more irritable as we walked the long path, past stellae, a ruined palace, a pool and monastery. I wasn't in the mood to really enjoy them.

As we passed a small hamlet an old man with two of his friends came out to greet us. They spoke no English, but the boy introduced him as his grandfather. He had with him a letter box with a carrying handle. He slid off the top section and from the other section of the box emerged an ancient goat skinned bible. This was a beautiful, irreplaceable, illuminated bible with Ethiopian style painted scenes. He proceeded to show me the pages with little care, flipping pages up with dirty fingers.

"Look, goat skin."

The old man is not finished yet and emerges with more treasures, iron crowns, crosses and a newer goat skin bible. I was never clear what his relationship was to the religious artefacts. Perhaps he was the village priest. Certainly, we ended up, all five of us at the church where he lifted tattered cloths to expose classical Ethiopian brightly coloured frescos. I provided illumination with a small torch while they chattered excitedly, and my friend provided a dull commentary. It really was a confusing experience to come across such treasures in such a poor, out of the way place with no understanding of the context and no apparent tourist motivation beyond my young companion's pleadings.

I was never free of my friend for the rest of the evening. I bought him supper and hoped that I could get dinner in peace, but he was waiting as I came out.

Adwa and Adigrat

My attempt to rise at 5 a.m. for the 7 a.m. bus to Adigrat foundered on tiredness and the need to mend sandals. It was my Birthday, but no flowers had arrived. I was told to hurry for the bus. Of course, as I approached the bus stop my constant companion appeared.

"No bus to Adigrat" he proclaimed.

I hesitated and the bus to Adigrat pulled away in front of me ahead of time.

My interest in Adigrat was that it was the nearest border town to the frontline of the war - some 20km. I was interested to see what was happening. My only hope now was a bus from Adwa to Adigrat. The bus took an hour and a half to leave. At Adwa, boys tell me the Adigrat bus would not leave until 1 p.m. I was not to be denied. I found an overpriced land rover

Adwa had a pleasant one-horse town feel. Dusty roads led to the market with rows of small kiosk shops. People were friendly, even at the bus station. The road to Adigrat ran parallel to the disputed border at some 15-20 km distance. The landscape is pustulated with huge, isolated outcrops of swirling lava patterns which radiate glowing colours of magenta, cyan, purple and pink against the yellow-brown colours of sand and the red-brown colours of sandstone. There is usually a one-day stubble of scrub bushes on the hills. The road is long, winding and dusty. Any vehicle coming arrives and departs in a cloud of dust. This is a big country.

My choice of vehicle was again called into question my decision-making skills as we were pulled over by the police and given a ticket for overloading. An hour later the suspension falls apart and was finally mended. Then, the carburettor blocked (several times), followed by brake fluid problems and, finally, /a burst tyre. The 1 p.m bus passed and arrived before us.

I was amused by the presence of the Ethiopian army as we sped along. For much of the journey, rag-tag, dishevelled soldiers would appear in twos and threes from hovels at the edge of the road. Some looked like models for Endicott's (Exeter Army Surplus Store), sporting a full outfit of detachable hood fatigues that either looked as though Mum had made them, or grabbed by mistake as they dashed out. These people did not look as though they would stop the might of the Eritrean Army. As we approached Enticho and Bizet much heavier concentrations of troops were present. Mainly, they were walking aimlessly up and down, or in the case of two older officers, with the definite aim of looking important. The first garrison were e barracked in a large sand-coloured tent proudly displaying a large badge proclaiming, 'US AID' We also passed two young recruits running along the road, obviously in training, and three others pleading with passing vehicles for a lift, which our driver ignored. The huge mixture of uniforms, including tribal headscarves and the general air of aimlessness did not give the impression of a highly professional and organised force. It looked like an army based on hope and goodwill rather than training.

I arrived in Adigrat an hour before dark to a town packed with soldiers walking aimlessly in large groups. There was a more edgy feeling because the town is the most likely to be attacked as the crossroad leading to Mikele, Axiom and Eritrea. People referred the 'situation' and one man told me he had been stopped because the authorities were worried about Eritrean infiltration. I too was stopped by a plain clothes immigration officer who was satisfied by my tourist in transit story. I found a hotel, but it was cramped and full of soldiers with only a passing acquaintance with hygiene.

It was obvious that staying in Adigrat served no purpose. I would take up scarce resources and not find anything useful to contribute. So up at 5 am for the bus back. As I was now expecting the quiet crowd waiting patiently at the bus station gate exploded into action the army would have been proud of as the gates opened. I followed a boy who said he was on his way to Axum and joined in the assault on the bus only to be told by the driver that he was not going to Axum. I was told that the Axum bus came through from Mekele in two hours. After I left the bus, I was told that I could, after all get to Axum by changing buses at Adwa on this very bus. By now the bus driver was saying that there were no seats left. This was special opps time. I waited until the driver left his cab and climbed aboard and grabbed a 'reserved' seat. Luckily, I got only a mild rebuke from the seat holder, and everything was sorted amicably to everyone's satisfaction. Next stop Adwa.

My clever move to get off the bus before Axum bus station was only partially successful in avoiding my annoying friend as he eventually caught up with me. The day did not improve as I discovered that my air ticket for Addis tomorrow was missing. Ethiopian Airlines' sympathy did not extend to sorting the problem and I turned into a two-year-old who's tantrum resisted all attempts at mollification. Eventually, they found that the ticket had mistakenly been torn off in Addis. That left me to relax with an afternoon museum visit and an evening dinner. The evening finished with the boys annoying the hotel owner and who threw stones at them.

Back To Addis

Despite another 5 a.m. start, ensuing chaos led to the airport minibus leaving without me. No Adwa buses were around but I managed to find a lift in time... phew! I was relaxed and at home back in Addis and wandered the shops. In a shoe shop I asked what music they were playing. It turned out to be wedding music which produced some shoulder dancing, offers of marriage and much laughter. Sorted the plane ticket.

Jinke and Demarke

All went well with the arrangements, which made me feel uneasy - where's the catch? The small plane landed on a grass air strip in the middle of the town. Everyone turned out to see it land. Jinka is a lovely dusty, back water town laid out in squares. It was market day with local town and Omo region tribal people there. Hamar people have gold bands up their arms and multiple earrings. The women wear goatskin skirts and are often bare breasted. They have short, braided hair a sometime wear a gourd shell cap. Men also have short skirts, but of brightly striped polyester. They have more tightly braided hair which flicks up on the neck. The Mursi, have a reputation for sharing tourists belongings and seem to keep themselves separate. The men are tall rangy people with shaven heads. The women are famous for lip and ear plates which are inserted in cuts in the lips and ears and gradually widened to saucer sized plates, which can only be removed when women are alone. No one knows why it is done, but one theory says it was to make women unattractive to slavers or other tribes. Sounds like a western idea to me. Anyone interested can buy lip plates at the market. The market is lively with many kef mills and women fighting over the kef flour produced. The local boys tricked me into the worst hotel, but I tried to get a refund to change hotel I met my match in the woman proprietor. I went to see what transport went to the small village of Turmi. Two local men persuaded me that it was very difficult to get to the villages by car. On the point of giving up David, a local shark, found a pickup leaving tomorrow that would take me for a silly price. Also in the price was David's fee as a guide, but I wanted to get to the villages.

Next day, I found that my high fare only bought me a place in the back of the open pickup. We drove for more than four hours through Hamar and Bani villages on the way to Demarke, a small village with a dusty square, a primary school and some pretty bougainvillea hedges. We spent the night there but then another sting. The driver wanted more money to go on to Turmi. I drove him down as low as I could but was already worried about cash running out and how I would get back.

Turmi

Turmi was a delightful large traditional Hamar village with a regular market. The women were particularly striking in their goat skin skirts, shell-embroidered bandanas and ocre and fat covered hair and bodies. They have beautifully boned, deep copper faces, which reflect light at all angles. (Note the Hamar women were almost identical to the Himba women of Namibia in look). I was so entranced, I went immediately to sit under a tree to watch, mainly the women, drag leather sacks of corn which was tipped into bowls and then tipped from bowl to bowl to separate the chaff, before being packed into smaller bags and prodded down with a stick. After some time David appeared,

"You come and see some dancing"

Sure enough, there is a chanting group some 30 metres down the road. As I approached the group a man tells me that it is forbidden for me to be there but immediately retracts. I am led by a woman to the centre of a chanting, dancing circle of about 100 women. They are delighted that I eagerly and enthusiastically copy their pogo-style jumps to the rhythm of the chants. This continues for several minutes with the women occasionally dancing forward forcing me to retreat. Eventually, the old men take a hand and a stick to the women and soon everyone is seated on the ground, under the burning sun, in primary school lines, presumably based on clan or family membership. There are more serious concerns, even if the women are excited. Today is European Aid hand out day. The women are chanting and dancing in happy expectation of the handout. This turns out to be a packet of rich-tea-style biscuits from Spain, followed by a hugely complex afternoon of distribution of maize corn to each family/clan. They are called in turn, made to stand in rows, occasionally berated and hit with sticks. Eventually, they drag a heavy sack across the dusty earth to be divided and packed into smaller sacks to be carried back to their houses. Many of the younger women put their gourd scoops wit handles on their heads to free up their hands. At last, the old men of each family put their thumb print on a form to say that they have received their ration. I meanwhile had been asked to be the official photographer for the distributors, who had visited fifteen villages with the hand-out. We got famously.

Well satisfied, I returned to the small guest house to find that several four-wheel drives hired by tourists from Addis, had come to the village. I had a very enjoyable evening with newfound friends, Cam a professional photographer, Sam, his nurse partner and Collette, a journalist/documentary produce, all from Australia. They had come to do a story on the famous 74-year-old woman doctor who for many years had run a fistula hospital for women damaged during childbirth. Some as young as 12years developed wounds that would not heal, leading to embarrassing bodily fluid leaks that ended in taunting and ostracisation. Now they had finished the story they were taking photos for an exhibition back home. David, by now, had disappeared off with his friends in the village. An elderly physic professor told of a recent trip through Sudan where a French couple had been arrested for kissing in public. At night the heads of families held a meeting outside the guesthouse, but all seemed harmonious.

The next day was market day, and I received the good news that the Aussies had offered me a ride to the bull-running ceremony in the afternoon. The market was an all-Hamar affair with local butter, honey, flour, grain, eggs and household goods. Farangi (foreigner) prices, quite rightly, applied and the relaxed affair offered another chance to sit and chin-wag. A few won reminded me of the dancing yesterday.

As I went to leave a policeman dragged me off to his friend's circular hut. At least twelve people were crammed into a small room and he seemed drunk. I discover that this charade was designed to ensure that he was taken to the bull running.

At last, the car is filled with 4 farange, Demi, the driver, 2 policemen and a wild-looking man from the bull-running village. Demi becomes increasingly upset as we take a wrong road and then after a long journey, the road becomes increasingly difficult and then disappears. Moral crumbles,

"Is it worth it?"

"It's probably finished by now."

Demi goes on and we reach a remote area in a beautiful hilly situation. We pick up a local couple in tribal dress, who want payment for Cam's smiling photos. By the time we enter the village the young women are already dancing in a circle and there are also plenty of other farange. This is a genuine tribal event, but everyone knows there is a buck to be made. This takes centre stage as the dancing is stopped as Cam takes a photo and the chief arrives in a traditional clay and feather head cap, a soviet era Russian tunic from which protrude bare legs decorated with chalk for the ceremony. The first of many crisis talks takes place. It seems that money rather than taboo is the key, and we agree a fee for photography. We insist on delivering the money direct to the chief, not trusting our policeman, who is keen to get his hands on the money as intermediary. The king receives the money on his throne-seat and the ceremony can begin again.

We are in a beautiful setting in the fold of green scrub and woodland covered hills. The pre-nuptial area is divided in three with a dance area for women only next to a mixed dancing area separated by thorn bushes. A circular grass-roofed open shelter stands separate with several clay pots sitting on top of fires. The women sing their songs in two groups, while the men pogo and stamp in a separate single group in the mixed area. The next stage involves a sort of hoe down in which the women join the men who dance before them. The women, who are already scarred on their backs mingle with the men and are whipped with stripling canes until their bodies are full of blood. All of this is beautifully ramshackle with dancers nattering to each other as they proceed, often looking round to see who is doing what first. We are told that the women are willing participants, viewing the ritual as displaying their love for the initiate and feeling pride in their scars. Eventually, two cows arrive, but in the chaos, they escape to the hillside. Perhaps we have been saved from a sacrificial slaughter.

Meanwhile, three very dark skinned, shaven headed young men sit impassively under the shelter, their bodies glistening with oil and an ochre band stretches across their eyes. Women sing in the shelter.

Suddenly, we are hastened to join the trek to the bull-running which is to take place on top of the adjacent hill. There is a surreal site of faranges mixing with the decorated nakedness Hamer winding their way up the hill to greet us. As we reach the site at the top twenty or more young women are herding a similar number of, to European eyes, small bulls together, blowing vuvuzela horns and using their arm bracelets as calabash. The bulls move back and forth as more and more people arrive and the noise grows. Gradually, the bulls having been crowded together in a human coral become quiet. A young warrior carrying a Kalashnikov decides to exert some authority over the, now separated, farange by making it clear that no photography is allowed. This develops into an argument with our wild guide from the car, which for a moment, looks nasty as they begin to push as well as argue. Cam tries to create calm by shaking the warrior's hand, but he glares back angrily and does not respond. During this time our second policeman has been almost continually involved in heated arguments with at least four other men. The tension is rising.

A naked boy of 14-16 years walks into the circle of milling boys. This is his one opportunity to pass the test and join the men who wear the distinctive head dress. Fail, and he is ever marked out by his lack of head gear. The three oiled and painted young men, perhaps brothers, walk round the bulls three times and we are ready for the main event. Men go to the horns and tails of the bulls and manoeuvre them side by side alternately horn, tail, horn. The naked boy runs fast and leaps gracefully, hurdle-style onto the back of the first bull. He sure-footedly runs across the line of bulls in about five or six strides and runs round to repeat the process. After three runs all is fine, one to go. He leaps onto the bulls, but after three strides there is a heart-stopping moment as he half stumbles, but he recovers to complete the task. There is a hug from a male, probably his brother, but not the expected roar of approval and celebration. The farange are moved away quickly and it is clear that the real action will take place when we have gone.

When we reached the car, the drunk policeman was missing, and we realised that we had not seen him for most of the time. However, Cam was pleased with his photos snatched behind the back of the maverick warriors. When we arrived back, having left the policeman, the boy David was already excited to tell us the story that had arrived before us. The drunk policeman had grabbed our 200 br fee from the chief and handed him 50 br. The chief got angry. The policeman stuffed another 50br into his hand and bolted. It was not clear if shots were fired, but a tour guide picked him up on the road halfway to Turmi.

Later that evening, we were amazed to see an almost incoherent policeman in the guest house restaurant,

"I am a bad man" was all he could say, but he had been a 'tourist' for the night and blown the entire 100 br on food and drink.

We never found out what happened, but some retribution was planned by the Hamer the next day.

N.B. Bruce Parry in the BBC series Tribe visited a bull-running ceremony (Iplayer)

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Jinka  

My concerns about getting back were alleviated when Cam and co. offered me a lift. Sam's 5ft stature brought her lots of teasing from the taller Hamar women, who could not understand how she was older than them. When we arrived back in Jinka there was a problem. The hotel only had two rooms. I decided to sleep in the open in the hotel garden. I had a good contact with Demi, the driver, and we spent a couple of hours at the market and around town. He was delighted to receive my English-Amharic phrase book as a gift. Dinner was enlivened by a boisterous connection with the victorious Jinka football team. As we went back to the hotel, Colette surprised me by offering to share the double bed for the night on platonic terms. It was not the first bed sharing arrangement of my travels, but the first with a woman. We spent the night in respectful decorum. Next day she told me of her long-term work helping an Australian sex researcher and planned to write a book on sex from a woman's perspective. She said she was glad she had not had such a frank discussion prior to our bed sharing.

Konsa

The ride to Konsa was, as always, hot and dusty, but through some lovely scenery with valleys, hills and a river with verdant, lush, growth. At Konsa I had an emotional farewell with Cam, Sam and Colette. Even Demi was very demonstrative. It is a strange quality of the travelling experience that you can feel so close to people you meet for only three days and then move on. Konsa was a small town constructed around a steep hill. There was a tourist office but with little English spoken and Demi had my phrasebook. They convinced that a traditional village some 16 km away was worth visiting by foot.

Konsa - Mikeke - Mikele

At six o'clock I met my guide, Dinote, an educated ex-teacher of 42 years. He had closed the tourist office for the day for the extra money. A system of dry-stone-walled terracing supports the growing of maize, sorghum, coffee, sugar cane, and even some cabbage and cassava. Juniper and a silver barked tree are grown for building materials.

The Kosovo women are distinctive for their two-tier skirts of beige or bright stripes of red, blue, green and white. They wear beads on their ankles to indicate marital status and many children they have along with gender. The beads are made by grinding ostrich shell by hand. These can last many generations.

Dinote , is, of course, interested in making a buck, but seems genuinely concerned about the fast-disappearing old rituals and would like them to be recorded. Most of the grave carvings have rotted or been stolen. Most of them record acts of heroism but fierce animals have long disappeared, and few are killed in tribal conflict now, so there is little call for carvings. An old man cares for those that are left and they are generally covered with grass. The heroes commemorated were allowed to wear a metal, multi-pronged, headband when alive. Generation tree-truck markers are placed in each part of the village as years pass and small stone stelae represent momentous events, erected left to right.

We finally climb a steep hill to Mikeke. It is surrounded by a dry-stone-wall with four entrances. Some 4,000 people live inside in clan compounds built close together on the side of the steep hill. Huts are round and grass roofed, with walls constructed with vertical sticks and dried mud. There are several substantial meeting houses with stout juniper support timbers. There are two floors, the ground floor being open air, but the upper floor used as a sleeping space by teenage boys who climb a notched central tree trunk. Guests also stay here. Stick fences mark out passageways between compounds and gateways create entrances to the compounds. A circular space at the top of the hill is for dancing after harvest and other festivals.

Men can take as many wives as they can support, whilst wives must marry into another clan and move to their compound. The teenage boys sleeping at the communal hut are waiting for marriage but still get their food at home - teenage boys are all alike.

The villagers are very money-poor and pleased if they make 1 or 2 br. In spite of that most appear healthy with good teeth.

We left downhill and crossed the valley, passing sugarcane harvesting and people playing Baw, a tradition game played across Africa. The game is played on a banana shaped wooden base with eight concave holes. The game is played with seeds being moved from hole to hole at speed with seeds being captured until there is a winner.

We went onto Mikele, a similar, but less attractive village and made our way back to Konsa, having covered close to 30km. We stopped at a village kef bar, with plenty of drunk men. As we walked into town a large crowd of 30-40 people emerged in close order doing a South African- style synchronised jog. As they passed, it was clear that they were carrying a huge ox above their heads. Dimote told me that they cut the tendons to take for slaughter, but later, a local vet in a bar told me that it had broken a leg, so had to be taken to market for slaughter (only the second in two years)

I spent the rest of the day trying to replace fluid lost on the hottest and most debilitating day of the trip. No trucks for Arber Minch, so a night in Konsa. My hosts were not tourist trained. The wife was a tired woman who resented having to serve me. He was a petit-bourgeois with a high-husky voice with a few phrases in English spoken without feeling. He spent his whole time obsessively counting his money. I had to remind myself that while I relaxed, they worked from morning to night every day.

That night was New Years Eve and full moon. Sometime, after falling asleep I was awoken by a canine cabal, the dogs having remembered their wolverine antecedence were howling at the moon. As my consciousness gathered strength, I became aware that a larger drama was emerging in the eery, pink pallid, moonlight outside my window. I peered out as the sound of a woman in apparent distress. It was not immediately close, and I began to weigh up whether to go out to seek the source. The woman's distress gave way to the to the convulsed sobbing of a male, who sounded as if he were in his late teens or early 20s. Other voices joined the invisible scene, an older man's calm voice emerged, and after five minutes the chaos of voices had settled to the slowly calming sobbing of the young man and the soothing voices of one or two females. A cloud of shouting, arguing, voices then moved away into town where it continued for perhaps an hour before everyone seemed to find the need for sleep. I never found out what the drama was about.

Arbor Minch (Forty Springs)

The bus was late and I was squashed in the back with my bag, watching a loan buxom young woman teasing some men and listening to positive agriculture stories from a Farm Africa consultant.

It turned out to be a hick town with the obligatory dusty roads, split into two sections some 4 km apart. The kids and adolescents were particularly unpleasant and intimidating. It was also the gateway to Nechisar National Park , an area of lakes, springs and wildlife, but I had no transport. I walked to the park HQ and the helpful warden said that a car with two people was booked to tour the park tomorrow. Why didn't I try to intercept them? It turned up trumps. He was a mid-life Dutch road Engineer on an EU contract and his visiting son. They agreed to take me into the park and even treated me to dinner, at the Bekeke Mola, which has the most stunning view of the two lakes and The Bridge of Heaven between them with extensive forests. The night consisted of more Disco sleep deprivation and urine perfumes.

We arrived at the Nechisar Park at 6.30 and drove all morning, seeing zebra, kudu, Thompson's gazelle, baboons and many birds of different varieties, but, as ever, it was people that proved as interesting. When we stopped by some thermal springs, we found six men and boys bivouacked by the side of the road. Only one spoke Amharic and told Jan, the Engineer, that they had travelled for three days from a far-off farm, we guessed because of the healing properties they associated with the spring. Probably one of them was ill. They were small in stature, dressed in tattered and patched western clothes, looking poorly nourished. One boy of about 12-14 years was happy enough but had stick-thin legs which seemed not to have developed much muscle. We had seen some lion tracks close by and they said they had heard lions roaring in the trees 300 metres away, last evening. We also came across two other groups in small clusters of huts. They were shy and spoke a different language. They had cows and goats and swap milk for grain products with others in the area. It seemed an incredibly hard life with no water close by. We have no idea.

The Park, itself, was very lovely set against a background of volcanic hills and containing very mixed countryside. We started downhill towards the lakes through increasingly dense forest with surprisingly large trees, although nothing like central Africa. We finished in Savanah with a huge expanse of white grassland looking beautiful in the slanting sunlight. Zebra and occasional deer grazed peacefully while night predators slept. One curiosity was a tree, bare of leaves, but flowering red and pink.

As we left the park, I decided to ask Jan if I could ride with them to Awasa, their destination. Just one problem - fuel. There was no fuel in town, and a permit had to be issued for a garage to supply some. No problem, the permit official had told Jan to come today to recive one. No problem, except that today was Saturday and the official was on weekend leave. Jan was imperturbable, he was used to road issues. We toured the garages until we found a man with a large barrel of double-price contraband benzine. Several jugs later we were on the road heading north.

Awasa

Awasa was a pleasant surprise. The tourist hotel next to the lake was the best yet. They had tried really hard to set out some pleasant patio gardens, had mosquito nets in rooms and folded towels into neat triangles for use with the hot water. There were even condoms by the bed, and for very reasonable prices. I felt guilty thinking of the cosmic unfairness of my fortune compared with the lives of the park people. I went for a walk by the lake, saw a beautiful display of kingfishers and treated the Dutch pair to dinner as a small thank you. Early night and deep disco free sleep.

Awassa -Addis

I awoke late at 7.10. which meant that my decision was made. There was no time for travel to Sodor, so enjoy Awasa and travel further with the Dutchies to Debra Zyet. I had time for a walk around Awassa. It was a pleasant, almost European town wth a grid system and wide boulevard roads, with even an attempt at sidewalks. People were obviously wealthier here, with European clothing, no beggars and upmarket shops. The new church was, as yet, unfinished after 15 years but worship was lively, upbeat and tuneful.

We drove to Debra Zyget and stopped for lunch. Zyget also had a lake teaming with large wading birds- stalks with long thick beaks and 3-4 ft wing spans, egrets, fishing eagles etc. I had a brief chat with an English engineer who had married an Ethiopian woman but had difficulty getting an exit permit for her. I wondered if this was a hangover from the totalitarian Mengistu era.

We also passed two funerals; one seemed to be a big-wig. There were lots of people, highly decorated graves etc but it interesting that the mourners wear the embroidered part of the Shauna on their heads for a funeral, but not normal worship.

I waved goodbye to Jan and his son, grateful for their generosity that had made my last journeys so easy. Onwards to Addis

Back In Addis

The last few days, and time to wind down and shop. I settled at the hotel Continental with a very lively bar full of men, pick-up girls, loud music and shoulder-shaking dancing. I was encouraged to join in, but as the only farange in a drunken male atmosphere I declined and wasn't pushed. For a long time, I sat silently until a man introduced himself as a Microsoft employee from Washington sat by me. He was joined by his friends, a judge and a Mercado trader. They were friendly and arranged for me to meet up at his father's house tomorrow. The judge encouraged me to make contact with a girl. By now my antennae were quivering. I sensed a scam and left at 11.30 p.m. and did not take up the invitations. My last two days were a tedious time of walking about Addis in search of trophy bargains in true tourist mode. I noted the symbolism of the Sheraton Hotel standing gloriously in front of a collection of tin, shanty shacks and found my way to the big mercado. It had an aggressive edge to it even in the early morning and guidebooks warned that it was best to hire a guide to this huge market. I walked down a street into the market and as I passed a crowded place next to a minibus a young man backed into me and turned with great apologies. As he did so he gripped my elbow and squeezed causing pain. My attention was on freeing his grip and moving away. I did not feel 'the dip' into my buttoned back pocket. It was a brilliant pickpocket that caught the arrogantly aware traveller. Their profit, six meal tickets sold by a local charity to give to the street poor. If they had asked, I would have given them some. Score draw.

Time for home and a fond farewell to a rich and rewarding country.

Paul Hague explains.

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