How to rectify a bad decision

Little Lalibela airport

The life of a backpacker is not always filled with glamorous hashtags and instashots of smooth tanned legs, cerulean blue seascapes and perfectly manicured dinners. There’s a lot of dribbling tepid showers, the constant pursuit of loo-roll, and bad decision-making followed by rectification where possible. If you’re after this sort of travel blog, you’re in the right place.

After my productive day in Addis I decided to travel to Lalibela in the north. I had seen most of the museums I wanted to and in any case I need to return to the city next week. I had tried moderately hard to like the capital but I felt that my efforts would be better placed in the more interesting northern region. 

And so it started again - the early alarm, the partitioning of the dirty clothes, the packing of the bags, the final room check and the setting forth upon the next adventure. I’ll be honest - it’s this that I like: being on the move to a new and uncertain destination. Why else would I have chosen to take the longest bus journey in the world, from Phong Nha Ke Bang to Luang Prabang when I could have continued my journey to Ha Noi and taken an hour’s flight? I love the thrill of the voyage, and I find overland travel especially satisfying. But internal flights in Ethiopia are so cheap, and I don’t quite have the time for uncomfortable long-distance bus journeys on this trip, so I am content to travel in a more time-efficient manner. 

Landing at Lalibela, a sweet little airport in the middle of the sunbathed countryside, a line of hotel drivers waited respectfully on the other side of the road. I stepped outside to have a look while waiting for my luggage, and they greeted me and waved. I didn’t mind this sort of gentle touting, I decided. I waved back and smiled. I had picked a hotel on the main street, so naturally my chosen driver, Ephram, took me to a different one. Upon seeing the room in which there was a bedside lamp (oh, luxury!) and a nice garden restaurant outside, I took it. 

I spent two afternoons visiting the spectacular twelfth century churches for which Lalibela is best known. The churches were carved out of the rock itself - a feat of human engineering which needn’t be supplanted by the popular belief that King Lalibela built them personally in only 23 years, the chiselling undertaken by the monarch during the day, and angels by night. The obvious difference in architectural styles and states of preservation demonstrates a far longer timespan. Sometimes the greatness of humanity is enough of a marvel without embellishment of church bells and fanciful whistles.

Later in my room I found that the bedside lamp, although with two bald wires to stick at my peril into the socket, lacked both plug and bulb. I asked if it could be upgraded. It was whisked back in a complete state within ten minutes. When I plugged it in, the connectors dangled limply from the wall, buzzed alarmingly, and shot out large orange sparks quite close to my head. I unplugged it at once and read my book by the light of my head-torch. The presence of sparks was a good sign, I reassured myself. Often the power goes out altogether. Sometimes there’s no hot water. Sometimes there’s no water. Occasionally the government here turns the mobile networks off. At times the wifi works.  

At bedtime I found a long, dark hair in the sheets. I removed it at arm’s length with a tissue and told myself that it might have been accidentally left by the cleaner. It seemed preferable to considering that the sheets may not have been washed at all. There being no water to take an evening shower, I went to bed slightly sticky with the residue of day-sweat. Anxious about the hair and bothered by a tenacious mosquito, I slept badly. 

I awoke early, relieved that I was checking out this morning. Perhaps the facilities would be better in the next hotel. As I drank my coffee I heard singing and clapping in the main square, and recalled that my excellent guide Alex had said yesterday that there was to be a three day festival here. He’d looked sad when I told him I’d booked a flight to Gondar for today. 

After coffee I wandered into town and found circles of colourfully decorated people, singing, dancing, jumping, and cracking great roped whips at each other in fun. It was the start of the festival. I felt a little disappointed with myself for having decided to leave, and wondered whether I had made the wrong decision. But it had been a rather unpleasant hotel and my flight was already booked, so by 10am I was on the way to the airport with a dreadfully irresponsible driver who rarely slowed to under 50mph even through villages lined with small children and livestock, although he was very careful when going over potholes, the selfish bellend. I wished that my careful and friendly driver Ephram had been around to drive me. I was convinced that we were either going to kill a child with this man's driving, or head straight off a cliff. At least I’d bagged the front seat with belt and headrest. The passengers in the back had neither. I remembered what the nurse in the Hospital for Tropical Diseases had told me when I collected my prophylaxis: that I’m far more likely to be injured or killed in a road accident than to catch the lethal strain of Ethiopian malaria. I’d jocularly told her at the time that I’d rather neither happened, given the choice. 

In the car, I felt slightly sick. We had almost hit several people. It was an ominous sign. Surprisingly we all arrived in one piece, although I privately hoped that the driver's axles were shot, and I handed him the fare begrudgingly without my usual winning smile. 

At the airport there was another group of young girls brightly dressed and waiting to dance. Someone told me that they were awaiting the arrival of the Minister for Tourism. Even she was coming to Lalibela today, I thought. Why was I leaving? I sat morosely in the sunshine, not having the heart to check in just yet, and then, unexpectedly, the voice of a friend greeted me. It was my guide, Alex! He’d come to the airport to meet the incoming Addis plane and find some custom. We chatted for a while, and I could feel how sad he was that I would miss the festivities. It was a real shame that my timing was poor, I realised, but perhaps I could return to Lalibela within the next few years. 

I had had a weight in my chest all morning which told me I had made the wrong decision, confirmed by the abysmal driving, and it deepened as friendly Ephram then drove up with some departing passengers. We shook hands and bumped right shoulders, and he invited me to lunch in a tiny hut I hadn’t noticed beside the airport. A television programme was showing the raucous Lalibela celebrations of last year. My fellow lunchers gathered around the screen, dancing in their seats. Ephram, Alex and I broke injera together, and the heavy feeling in my chest descended to my stomach with the bread. 

Suddenly I jumped out of my chair. “I’m going to change my ticket!” I announced. Neither of my friends looked surprised, as though they’d known all along. I marched into the airport, and explained my predicament to an Ethiopian Airlines employee. “No problem”, he said. “You can fly tomorrow, or the next day, whenever you want. No problem.” “Don’t I have to change my ticket?” I asked. He shrugged. “The system here is not working. You can wait until it’s back online, or you can change it this afternoon in the office.” “Even if I miss my flight before I change to a new one?” He shrugged again. “Why not?”. “No problem”, I said. It had only been £25 anyway.

Soon I was on my way back through the beautiful mountainous landscape towards bella little Lalibela and the festivities, driven carefully by Ephram. I hung my face out the window like a happy doglet and waved at roadside children. As we passed my incoming Gondar plane taxiing on the runway, I realised with a jolt that in all the excitement I hadn’t paid for my lunch. Ephram waved my contribution aside, as well as my return fare. “No problem”, I said. “I’ll see you and Alex in town later anyway. I think I'll stay here a few more days.”

Not my plane.

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More on Ethiopia:

The Intelligent Woman’s Guide to Ethiopia
Into Africa
How to rectify a bad decision
Lalibela: Ashendye women's festival