I have arrived in the ancient mountain-city of Harar, where less than 150 years ago unbelievers (non-muslims to you n me) were immediately killed if they set foot within the sacred walls. Well after my overnight minibus journey i felt they were maybe trying to better the tradition by trying to do away with the infidel before they even got there.They have developed this formidable weapon known as "the Overnight Minibus from Addis Ababa", and it's a miracle I survived!
I knew the overnight journey was not going to be easy, especially with my zero-confince bowel issues, but when the little empty toyaota pulled up outside the hotel, I leapt inside with all the naivete of a happy little piggy going to market. As soon as my bum hit the seat I knew I was in trouble. This minibus was not so much fitted with seats as somethng more like pews. They were hard as hell- and legroom? Even my stunted little pegs had all their circulation cut off within about 15 minutes. However at least I had the thing to myself...
This is a bad thing. If you get in a bus and it's empty- you are in for a long, long wait, because no minibus driver likes to make his journey unless the his wagon is full- and i mean really full. We drove around Addis Ababa for about 3 hours trying to hustle up some passengers. The first place was a kind of seedy motel-hotel, with lots of young girls wearing lots of make-up, tight clothes and stilettoes hanging around the courtyard. They were easily the best looking and youngest prostitutes I had ever seen (in my vast experience) and i wondered why I hadn't stayed there. But there were no takers for the bus, unforunately so we drove around some more, and some more, and... a lot more, he driver and his 2 accomplices in this torture shouting into their cell phones the whole time, and stopping in seemingly utterly random places. Eventually, 3 hours later the bus is full- every seat is taken, and we are all rather squashed. So at last we start to drive out of town, and just as we are about to pull onto the 'highway', the minibus stops and the driver runs off. I presume he has gone to take a leak. 20 mnutes pass. I can relate to this, so it's okay. But then he returns- with 4 new passengers! Lucky us- and lucky them! They are crammed into the bus after much shouting and gesticulating. Now we are 19 passengers crammed onto the smallest mini-minibus in the world. I have a huge fat man (of course) on my right jamming me into the window- literally leaning and sitting all over me, and my favourite passenger, and old crone who had to be carried on and jammed right in the back, directly behind me, who has a horrendous infectious-sounding cough and insists on playing the "where will i stick my 5-ft long walking stick" game, and seems to delight in smacking me on the head with it, and trying to poke it into the entirely theoretical gap between me and the window. She also seems to really enjoy just knocking me on the back throughout the whole journey (the backs of the seats are low and there are no headrests.
I am painfully aware that I am not going to sleep, so my ipod becomes absolute gold- if it wasn't for the Stone Roses blocking out the hideous mysogenistic Rap the driver loves so much, spliced amongst cheery ethiopian pop and R Kelly, I might just have died.
My bum has succumbed to the numb- in fact it has gone well beyond that- undergoing a kind of bum-death, that i never conceived could be possible. You see, it is clear that moving- even a muscle is quite out of the question- Fat man has made sure of that- and there simply isn't enough room for all the bits of our bodies; two of the men in front who didn't even know each other before this all began are draped over each other like lovers, trying to find somewhere to put their arms and weary heads.
Many hours pass. We stop at an all-night 'service-station', which is basically a strip of road lined with some rough shacks that make food all night, unleash beggars at you, and have plastic furniture.. There are about 10 minibuses and trucks parked up, and the place is buzzing with activity. This is a chance to try and get some life back into my lower body, but eventually after doing a few bum-exercises it's back onto the crush-bus. It's really hard to force myself back on, but if I stayed at the all-night eateries I'd be at the mercy of the beggars, so on I clamber, back to snuggle up to my big black man.
We haven't driven far when there is a scene of commotion ahead with a crowd of people standing in the road and several minibuses that were at the service strip all parked haphazardly, We stop and everyone gets out. Wearily I clamber out too, only to discover that the crowds have gathered to stare at the spectacle of a mangled minibus, just like our own, that has careered off the road and smashed into a tree some 20 metres off the road. There is luggage strewn all across the dark field and people are weeping and wailing. Suddenly the crowd parts and some men lay down a body at the side of the road and cover her. People are wandering about in a daze, and people from my bus are holding their heads in despair or disbelief, just sitting, or wandering in an out of the crowd. I get back on the bus, but it's over an hour before we get moving again, my fellow passengers seem keen to help, and are wandering around the accident scene, picking things up and trying to move things. But this aimless dithering makes it seem even more nightmarish to me. Everything seems to be done in a daze and people are just fiddling; no-one seems to know exactly what they should or shouldn't do. The police still haven't arrived by the time we drive on. I just can't help thinking how it could have been us. These minibuses drive so fast.
During the long journey I feel like i'm caught up in a strange dream, where things seem inevitable and unchangeable, yet senseless and not understandable. More than just this journey even, perhaps this is a more general way of describing my feelings about this place altogether: An Ethiopian Dream.
When I finally get to Harar I am so happy to get out of the crush-bus alive that I practically skip into the ancient streets with my massive kit-bag slung over my shoulder. I pass through a great fortified gate replete with a crenellated top and arabic inscriptions. The street that takes me into the heart of this mystical realm is narrow, with ancient wonky whitewashed walls that make a welcome break from the corrugated iron chaos of everywhere else, and set off the amazing colours worn by the people here in the best possible way. 
On my way to my guesthouse my eyes are dazzled by the saffron-yellow cloth bandanas set off against the dark skin of the Oromo women wearing dark green and multi-coloured dresses, bright cereleum blue hijabs and women carrying all sorts of unbelievable things on their heads, and as I srumble down the white dusty alley flooded with bright african light the street children pop and ping around me shouting "Faranjo! Faranjo! Hallo! Give me money!" I know I'm going to like this place. It feels magic already!
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