#backtracker

When in Ethiopia, do as the Rastas do 

Shashamane in the West Arsi zone of Oromia, Ethiopia, is home to some couple hundred Rastafarians who migrated over to settle in their spiritual homeland. This devout lot occupy a small tract of land on the edge of town. They’re a friendly bunch, growing food and selling their wares in a close-knit and well-kept community.

My solo venture there was short-lived, but formative. The town itself is pretty hostile. I’m used to being stared and pointed at living in Ethiopia, but this was next level. The locals found my presence singularly hilarious. A group of kids hounded me down the street. I find it hard ingratiating myself with 6-year-olds as it is, let alone when about twenty are shrieking “fuck you” at the top of their tiny lungs. The two verbal weapons in my arsenal, bekka (enough) and then hidu (go away) did nothing except provoke more laughter at the stupid faranji (gringo) scuttling away from them.

Finding the Rasta’s compound was a welcome respite. Lined with high concrete walls, it’s the hub of their community - a sort of rec centre and place for religious festivals. The older Rastas with crustier dreadlocks spoke only Jamaican patois - I was with some English-speakers who were glad to show me round and chew the fat. They were also keen to ply me with their home-grown bush weed, which was fine till I was subjected to a lengthy oration on their faith and tribe’s history – an exhaustive lecture which I nodded through smilingly as the facts and figures wafted past my unresponsive psyche.

There was one minor panic when they handed me some food – a kind of potatoey pasty with a small pile of what looked like grated carrot next to it. The fluffy stodge sucked all the moisture out of my mouth as I slowly masticated – I felt inward horror as my gag reflex started rearing its head. The thought of chucking up their kindly offered meal on the patio was mortifying. Certain there was nothing I could do, I turned to the orange shavings on the side of the plate. Sharp and tangy whatever it was brought the saliva rushing back, and breathing an inward sigh of relief I ate the rest with gusto.

There was time for one more excitement. Out in the street, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to face a fat, toothless man swaying on his feet and saying something probably abusive and hurtful. Before I could react he grabbed my phone from my pocket and stumbled off. My friend stepped in to get it back. Suddenly both men were grappling each other, one hand clinging to the phone, the other pulling furiously at the opponent’s hair. Spectators, enjoying themselves hugely, congregated to survey the two wrestling men and awkward-looking white bloke.