Most days, if you said to me "Linnea, you are a delicate
flower", I would probably give you the look I give people when they say
something stupid (if you know me, you know this look) and say something that
would be very unladylike and not delicate. I am perhaps too proud of my
sense of independence and adventure. I don't mind when the power goes out
or when I don't get to shower for a couple days (let's be real, even when I
have the choice, I don't shower every day). I love being outdoors, hiking,
and camping and generally not being inside, doing embroidery or whatever
well-bred ladies do. But that said, coming here, to the Somali region of
Ethiopia, makes me feel like a delicate flower. And not just a delicate
flower, but the kind of flower that needs to be raised in a conservatory and
handled with gloves made of calfskin. The kind that will shrivel up and
fall apart if its put in too much sun. The kind of flower that would not
make it here. This place is, in a word, rough. Not to say that it
is terrible or awful or unworthy of seeing, just that it is rugged, hot, dusty,
hot, remote, and did I say hot?
I have been to a place or two that has amazed me, but driving for
two hours in mid-day through the Somali landscape was mind-blowing.
Everything is baked in the sun and covered in dust. You can see for
miles through the scrub because the bushes are so small and generally without
leaves. There is no evidence of water anywhere, except that every once in
a while you will see a tree that has a few green leaves amongst the yellow. It
goes months without rain and you can see the evidence of where riverbeds were
(especially since you are usually driving in them) but they are completely dry
and cracked. When we were driving I thought that I saw fires in the
distance because I kept seeing columns of red smoke. Not smoke at all,
but dust that is lifted in the air like a tornado. And then eventually
not just one tornado but a whole sky full of dust as we drove through a giant
sandstorm.
All that is pretty amazing already but what is mind-blowing is
that people LIVE here. Not that they visit for a few days a year, throw
up a tent city and party to trance music and alternative art, but that they
live here every day, year round. And yes, of course, many of them do live
in tent cities (although I didn't see any alternative art, natch) and the
poverty is pretty extreme, but I still saw most of the same things that define
our lives. I saw kids playing, kids going to school, I saw young guys
sitting around drinking coffee and listening to Bob Marley, I saw clothiers
selling Arsenal and Man U shirts, and saw people at work. And not just
sitting at a computer work. Hard manual labor work, digging holes, laying
concrete, herding goats, washing dishes and cooking over fires. Real
work. Sweaty work.
And the whole time I was seeing this, I had two of the truck's air
conditioners pointed right at me, and was drinking out of a giant water bottle
that someone had to buy for me because I lost my wallet (found it FYI), I had
my scarf wrapped around my head like a turban to keep my hair off my neck, was
sweating through my shirt and pants, and felt like I was going to pass out.
I'm sure I was bright red too but since I refused to look at my
reflection, I will assume that I was the picture of glamour. Other than
the sweat stains. And the floppy turban.
So the point of this rambling story is that if you ever need to
reaffirm your faith in human resilience, come to Dolo Ado. Then drive two
hours away. You might not have much faith in your resilience, but I bet
you will be pretty impressed by everyone else's.
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