Addis Ababa to Harar, Day 321

A combination of factors are at play today that leave Christi and I for perhaps the first time on our Year of Wonder thinking more about the comfort we are giving up rather than the adventure that lies before us. Although our tiny apartment in San Francisco is not as luxurious at the Hilton hotel in Addis Ababa, both have that squishy comfortable feel that is addictive. The 10-hour bus journey from Addis to Harar in the east of the country is another enthusiasm killer, although I shouldn’t complain about this as our Lonely Planet guide said that until very recently it was a two-day journey involving a change of bus in the regional capital of Dire Dawa. The third strike is the early start. We have to be up at 4 am and be at the bus station for a 5.30 am departure (farangi time). And finally, my bowels are feeling a little slack today. No doubt I picked this up from Christi who is now feeling quite perky again after a few days on Ciprofloxacin. I have no desire to start yet another course of antibiotics, but no bus in Africa to date has had a toilet on board (oh how I yearn for the buses of South America) so I’m going to resort to Imodium. I figure a little constipation is the lesser of two evils when compared to a potentially embarrassing episode on the Sky Bus service to Harar. We chose Sky Bus incidentally because it is one of the few buses to travel direct to Harar and also because it supposedly has a good safety record.

We leave on time and the bus driver is clearly in a hurry. In a race with the Japanese bullet train I think our driver would win. Of course he might end up killing himself (and us). Unfortunately Christi and I are sat right at the front of the bus and so have a bird’s-eye view of his suicidal tendencies. The driver’s favorite trick is overtaking on blind corners (and since it’s one lane in each direction, this is a particularly dangerous maneuver). As usual in Ethiopia the roads are full of herds of animals, carts being pulled by cattle, people, tuk-tuks and most worrying of all large trucks plying the route between the Eritrean coast and Addis Ababa (Fast fact: when Eritrea won its independence from Ethiopia in 1991, Ethiopia became a landlocked country). Even with a lunch stop (and in deference to my delicate stomach I merely watch Christi eats injera) we cover the 500 km between Addis Ababa and Harar in 8.5 hours. The driver seems very pleased that he we accomplished the journey 90 minutes ahead of schedule. I just feel lucky to be alive. I guess a good safety record is relative. We didn’t crash, but our hearts were in our throats, in the pit of our stomachs, and occasionally beating out of our chests.

Harar is located on a hilltop in the eastern end of the Ethiopian Highlands, some 1,885 m (6,000 feet) above sea level. The town was founded in the 7th century by Arab immigrants and has been a major commercial centre for centuries. Harar is linked by historical trade routes with the rest of Ethiopia, the entire Horn of Africa, and the Arabian Peninsula. In 2006 the old walled city (known as Harar Jugol) was designated a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in recognition of its cultural heritage.

Christi and I alight from the bullet bus as quickly as possible and use the Lonely Planet guide to Ethiopia to identify suitable accommodation. We couldn’t agree a price at our first choice, the Ras hotel. It seems odd to me that the hotel would not give us a little discount and instead preferred to keep the room empty. Harar is not exactly overflowing with tourists. In the end we settle (OK, I settle – I think Christi would have been happy to pay full price at the Ras) for the Belayneh hotel. The people here are much friendlier, although the place has a distinct lack of facilities – like power and water! With little opportunity to relax in the room I persuade Christi to take a stroll around town with me vaguely in the direction of the walled city. And much like the Lower Omo Valley we are immediately greeted by a cultural plethora of ethnicities, including Oromo, Harari (Adare), Amhara, and Somali nomads who all call Harar and its environs home. I think it’s all quite exciting, although not, apparently, in comparison with a hot shower.