Dire Dawa Diary: Entering Babel

After ten days of royal monuments and mystical churches in the Christian north, I set I am on my way to Harar – a ten hour ride from Addis on an overstuffed minibus (capacity: 12, actual seating plan: 21) during which I balance my seatmate’s baby on on one knee and her enormous bag of chat on the other. As the landscape and weather begin to change, I am, at first, grateful for the sun and heat after so many days of rain. But with the windows hermetically sealed (Ethiopians seem to have an acute fear of fresh air), the bus begins to bake. My fellow passengers sit with astonishing stillness and serenity as I imagine death by asphyxiation.

We make excellent time, thanks to our Kamikaze driver and a few close scrapes with livestock. With only a short leg to Harar ahead of us, we stop briefly in Dire Dawa for additional passengers. My heart sinks as I contemplate another hour of physical contortions. In a desperate attempt to regain feeling in my right butt cheek, I bid farewell to the bus, grab my pack, and limp off to Kafira Market.

off for eastern Ethiopia, where Arab and African elements have blended since Islam arrived on horseback in the 16th century.

The main market in Dire Dawa is partially enclosed by enormous stone horseshoes of Moorish influence. Entry through these gates is an overwhelming sensory experience – a magnificent panoply of colors, languages, aromas and textures.

The narrow passageways are lined with Oromo farmers, Somali pastoralists, and Afar herders selling an abundance of fruit, vegetables and livestock. Walking through this market is like discovering the city of Babel.

Compared to the elegant, colorful vendors, I cut a pretty unimpressive figure with my ungainly backpack and grimy clothes. Nevertheless, I am greeted cordially by all with the ubiquitous “faranji” a word that means “foreigner” but seems to take on a multitude of other meanings, depending on context:

Faranji! Hello, stranger!
Faranji! You are not from here.
Faranji! Come here, I have something to show you!

As I wend my way through the market, women call me to their stations and feed me from their plates. I drink cold, slushy mango from a knotted plastic bag. How did they know I was so hungry? We smile at each other; I fumble with my phrasebook and point at my camera to ask permission. I want to remember their faces, and capture their lovely, colorful clothes. The women present their babies and shyly step aside. I am disappointed. “You are beautiful,” I say clumsily. I can’t keep my eyes off of them.

I am reluctant to leave, but catch a mule cart to the bus station. As we plod along, people run to the cart to clasp my hand in greeting. I am so happy. I feel so light, so exhilarated that I have to suppress the urge to stand up in the cart and say “Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” as a child does when her swing soars precariously high.