Axum Diary: A Self-Pitying Interlude

It would be difficult to recreate the pathetic, whimpering tone of my diary entries while in Axum, a town 56km from the Ethiopia-Eritrea border. Since I’d like to retain whatever tiny shreds of dignity that still remain, I’m going to skip the narrative, since no one really wants to hear about how the hotel “toilet” rivaled its counterpart in Trainspotting, how I sat in my dark, freezing room at night wearing two pairs of underwear to prevent fleas from violating my punani, or how I lunged from my bed in a fit of rage, yelling at the barking dogs outside my window to shut the fuck up for chrissake, goddamit. And really, I don’t think anyone is interested in reading about the local guy who took me to hear “traditional Tigrayan music and dance” at a brothel featuring life-sized posters of naked white people who were seconds from attaining coital bliss. Instead, I’d like to maintain my current reputation as someone who is dedicated to high-minded pursuits – someone who is capable of wearing sensible shoes and donning a headlamp when necessary, someone whose secret hope was not to return from Ethiopia tan and fifteen pounds lighter.

Instead, I’m going to post some pictures of Axum, pretend I wasn’t such a wimp, and move on to the next post. The next post is about a blue-eyed boy.