Mon 3 Feb 2014 (26 Tir 2006) Lalibela

Mon 3 Feb 2014 (26 Tir 2006) Lalibela We are up and out on the town at 7:45 AM: 8 is when most businesses open. Mike wants to try what one cafe calls the "full breakfast." We go to John Cafe. The "full breakfast: scrambled eggs and 6 small pieces of French toast (with honey to dip). One 50 birr breakfast feeds us both. It is 8:45 AM. Mike wants to see the south end of town, called Roha. So we start walking, past the tukul village. We see a woman selling what appears to be bunches of banana leaves. We say "muz?" (the Amharic word for banana) She says "hova." No idea what these leaves are. Perhaps they are "false banana" leaves. A little farther along, the road (now gravel) turns left. Here are banks of public pay telephones (almost gone from the rest of the world). A little farther is a turn-off that looks like a parking lot. We follow the parking lot, and we are at the site of Bet Giorgis, the most famous of all the churches. St. George is the patron saint of Ethiopia (and maybe flies, at least here). It is the tallest of the Lalibela churches (15 m in height). The church itself is cruciform, and the top is engraved with a St. George cross (symmetrical arms). Bet Giorgis is the most identifiable symbol of all the rock-hewn churches. We walk around the upper perimeter, looking for a way down. Finally, we locate a few stairs that lead to a downward walkway. They take us all the way down to the bottom, where we can enter the church. There is light fungus on the exterior walls that enclose the church. Bet Giorgis feels monumentally tall as we look up. This church is three stories high, and light streams in from windows high up. There are no internal pillars, which is why it looks so huge inside. Within, there is artwork of St. George killing the dragon, and another depiction of St. George. [Carol poses for a few photos holding her Toastmaster Magazine for submission to the "Traveling Toastmaster" feature.] We head back up, where we take multiple photos of the top to try to capture the essence of the cross of Bet Giorgis. Nearby, there is a small gravesite along with a stunning cactus that has a long=stemmed flower about 6 ft tall. We head back onto the main road. We cross the little "Jordan River" and head on, past graves and cows and goats into the south part of town. On the way we pass some interesting signage: "Marry X mass - Helen Hotel," "House of the Lalibela Artisans: UNESCO/Japanese Funds-in-Trust and the . .. Government of Ethiopia." Our favorite: the "Again Obama Gife Shop." [sic] In our view, the south part of Lalibela (Roha) has very little to recommend it as a sight to see or to choose for lodging. We are glad to be staying at Seven Olives. We check out an internet cafe. It was very slow and VERY costly by Ethiopian and our standards (1 birr per minute, or $3.15 per hour). So posting can wait. While in Roha, we stop at a tourist office, which has multiple copies of a book, "Lalibela," in Amharic, 20 birr. We order two drinks at a cafe, pause for a few minutes, and walk back uphill to the town center, our home base. As we get close to town, we meet two foreigners, women from Hong Kong and Sweden. They are in the process of moving from a Roha hotel to intown lodging, carrying backpacks and frontpacks that seem to weigh over 40 lbs. for each lady. They want to stay somewhere for 100 birr apiece ($5.25 US), almost lower than Shoestring rates. Back in town, Mike and Carol stop in at our fuul restaurant for coffee. We are treated to, and are able to watch from beginning to end, the full coffee preparation process. First, the green beans are culled, washed, and doubly rinsed (amazing how much dirt comes out). Then they are pan-toasted: stirred constantly over low heat in an attempt to get a uniform color and roast. Then they are placed in a charcoal burner for finishing, and spooned into a deep metal vessel. A long metal rod is then used to crush the beans. Crushing appears to be very hard work, taking a good deal of skill and effort. (No uniform burr-grinders here.) When the coffee is finally ready to be served, the proprietress adds some myrrh to the smouldering eucalyptus chips. She has clearly enjoyed our interest and attention in how coffee is prepared. She gives us a small bag of green coffee beans and another small bag of myrrh. Carol takes out our family pictures, which the woman enjoys viewing. Back to the Seven Olives restaurant, where we order rice with shiro and spaghetti with tomato sauce. Carb loading at its best (and don't forget that kita bread). We eat slowly and work on the blog. Mike declares: "No more rock churches." We talk extensively with a Swiss woman who had arranged a 2 1/2 week private tour through western Ethiopia. Cook, driver, guide, security and 4 tourists traveled through a primitive part of Ethiopia. What you don't bring with you (e.g., food), you won't be able to acquire. What an adventure she just finished! She will also be on our plane to Addis tomorrow, but she will stay at the airport and continue in the afternoon to Harar. After some time, we move to a table with an older German from Frankfurt named Peter. Peter has been hitting the road since 1966 and is very well-travelled. We talk for many hours about our personal travel adventures. Peter spent years over his life in India; we tell him about Iraq, Iran, and Central Asia. He has been staying at Seven Olives for a whole week. He has paid nothing yet, and has been waiting for hours to receive a total bill. Peter is flying out on the same flight as we are tomorrow. We have asked for a 9 AM minibus, but he has arranged for an 8 AM minibus which, if we wish, we can share for 70 birr each. Over the course of the walking in town through the day, we have accumulated a fan club of three or four older local boys, each with passable English, who wanted our e-mail to communicate. Not begging, but conversationalists. We have also been given various stone and wooden pendants by our new friends. It is nice to be on the receiving end of gifts for once. We check out another internet cafe, but it is also VERY expensive - maybe all the Lalibela spots are in collusion. It might have been a useful timesaver to have carried our own equipment, since WiFi seems to be available at all better hotels (such as Seven Olives). But being beholden to an electronic device - that's not us (for now). After sundown, before dinner, we go for a walk. It is cool and pleasant, and we feel welcome. In the past, Lalibela was known for its particularly persistent beggars and street children. During the past few years training programs for those in need have been initiated. Boxes have been stationed at most hotels where visitors can make a donation toward providing food and housing (we can't find one). As the day winds to a close we see all kinds of everyday life. We walk past a tej bar that seems to be a place where people go to carouse at night (Peter related that he had drunk too many tej's there earlier). We meet the girls from earlier. They had found lodging near the BluLal at their price. They were encouraged that the 2 km walk to the bus station they were anticipating very early tomorrow morning was all downhill. They had pluck and luck to be able to travel in the way they chose. We go to the BluLal Restaurant for dinner. We order a mehabarawa plate: injera with various bean and other toppings. One of the toppings was the clotted cream like Mike consumed in the nafish from Gonder, so we ate around that. No reason to take dietary chances now. At the next table was a young woman and man, both French, traveling together for convenience. She is a musician who plays, among other instruments, the electric saw. He is traveling the length of east Africa. We were all eating outside because the interior was completely filled with patrons who sat at long tables. Their plates were empty, but after a while staff members appeared with large pots. They seemed to be serving everyone the same thing - some kind of set menu item. After we finished eating, we were invited inside for the evening's entertainment. No charge. There were two musicians, both dressed in white. One played a kechaita, a bowed string instrument with a single string; the other had 2 drums. Two women dancers and one male dancer, each wore dark green outfits set off with patterns of white buttons. The women wore full-skirted dresses, with very long with sashes wrapped around their waists. The man wore shorts and a short sleeved shirt. The dancing began. Throughout our trip, we have seen people carry large heavy loads on their backs and shoulders: jerry cans, children, bushel baskets, loads of wood, and 50 kg bags. It is no wonder that they have an extraordinary ability to pull their shoulders back, thrust their heads forward, and dance the "Funky Chicken" with the speed of hummingbird wings. There is very energetic shaking from the shoulders down through the entire upper body (no hip shaking). Various local diners got up joined the dancers. It was great to see older men in suits get down and boogie like teens. So much better than a floor show directed to farengi tourists. Occasionally, the women would unwrap their scarves and hold them well behind their waists, or bend their knees and sink lower and lower. The man danced like an absolute dervish. Eventually, Carol got out her long scarf and danced with one of the women, to great applause. Then - ouch! - she felt a twinge on her left side. Time to sit down. Mike didn't dance. At about 9 PM, we had had enough. We tipped the performers. As we walked back to the hotel, Carol hobbled along, fearing that she had thrown out her left hip while dancing. She just can't "shimmy like her sister Kate" anymore. Gingerly, oh so gingerly, we went to bed.