tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38567001135753330732024-03-13T22:05:26.723-07:00PdG's 2016 Favourite Aunties and Old Comrades Reunion Tourpdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.comBlogger161125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-82736222439189268492017-10-22T02:39:00.002-07:002017-10-22T02:52:03.632-07:00Farewell favourite auntie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8JK7gpRjhmHrki8CS-uR2ajSCsH6RtlGhQQZN0q4hdTgENC7bnC-iGa-Q7E5QyIZE4pWK4pkVLKF7ceAM3DIL3Jtd2aYTLThYbGQZegR21gH53SPmOMG3rIpImaejrK0XSojSzkX6f8/s1600/PdG2016tour_Netherlands_9051870.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="1000" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8JK7gpRjhmHrki8CS-uR2ajSCsH6RtlGhQQZN0q4hdTgENC7bnC-iGa-Q7E5QyIZE4pWK4pkVLKF7ceAM3DIL3Jtd2aYTLThYbGQZegR21gH53SPmOMG3rIpImaejrK0XSojSzkX6f8/s400/PdG2016tour_Netherlands_9051870.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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When I embarked last year on my Favourite Aunties and Old Comrades Reunion Tour my main goal, as the name suggests, was to see my old aunties, three of whom were well into their 90s. I was just in time because my most favourite auntie, Dorothea ('Do' for short), died suddenly on October 5, 2017, aged 95. <b>May she rest in peace. </b></div>
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<i>Lieve Dootje* (you never let me call you Tante* Do when you
were alive, so I’d better not start now),</i></div>
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<i>When I said goodbye to you last September we pretended it
wasn’t really goodbye. I said something about coming back to see you again in a
couple of years, and you agreed, but we both knew it was the last
time. Only I didn’t expect you to leave us quite so suddenly. </i></div>
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<i>I told you that you were my favourite aunt, because it was
true, then I pedalled back to Ted and Angela’s house and the next day I began
the long trip back to New Zealand. </i></div>
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<i>I remember how you gave me my first foothold in Holland,
nearly 30 years ago, by inviting me to look after your house while you and Ries
spent the winter in Spain. And when you came back you let me stay, and let me
feel like that was fine and part of the plan all along, because I didn’t know
what I wanted to do next. </i></div>
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<i>Over the years you and Ries, and later just you, were always
there for me. Always ready with a cup of coffee, with a room to sleep in if I
needed it, with your beautifully hand-written letters in exquisite Dutch, your
advice, your compassion for others, your open-mindedness. You really were a
woman ahead of your time. </i></div>
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<i>During my last visit you told me <a href="https://2016tour.blogspot.co.nz/2016/05/the-hunger-winter.html" target="_blank">some of your stories</a> about
the war years, about how you and your sister José pushed bicycles across the
country in mid-winter, risking your lives at German checkpoints, to find food
for the rest of the family who were starving in Leiden. </i></div>
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<i>I marvelled at the
strength you must have had, and while your body had weakened since then, that
strength was still there in your voice, in the way you relived those events of
more than 70 years ago. </i></div>
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<i>Lieve Do, my favourite auntie. This time it really is
goodbye. </i></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;">*Lieve Dootje = Dear Little Do. 'Dootje' is the diminutive form of Do. </span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;">*Tante = aunt. This form of address was strictly forbidden by Do, who found it far too stuffy and formal. </span></div>
<br />pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-51238157214958958412016-11-01T01:32:00.002-07:002016-11-01T02:46:06.973-07:00People I met on the way #2<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">As promised, here are a few more people who helped make my trip so memorable. This post is for folk I met in <strong>Rwanda and Ethiopia</strong>. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Village patriarch, near Gisenyi, Rwanda. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Boy with bananas, Gisenyi, Rwanda.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJtGpOB7_8YAFzuRwgB5pl3GT_vwKjUmuR_9UdyXhPtdGQ5jTgOEeF_9o2gG0TtQFgv8zCKfZ3UTx5VZekn9kT5V7XOQU5tnnjl9ZSJJIZBvzBj9F5fp0V4aG6xBIOpDiGwCSAyAj6e20/s1600/mum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJtGpOB7_8YAFzuRwgB5pl3GT_vwKjUmuR_9UdyXhPtdGQ5jTgOEeF_9o2gG0TtQFgv8zCKfZ3UTx5VZekn9kT5V7XOQU5tnnjl9ZSJJIZBvzBj9F5fp0V4aG6xBIOpDiGwCSAyAj6e20/s400/mum.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Woman and child with Lake Kivu in the distance, Gisenyi, Rwanda.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2DSVQWQk4o9VxFIUA6C6J3_3KFhv4ySK4YTFFFO1AMh-V1FiY60JlpX9x2-Eh4Ny23jTrvIE_NnmKx2kV3hhCy8IiOFdV3tYMaRnuteU0_usHLY_tVO1K_F1oFEB0e-hy5Kvuhi-iU9o/s1600/bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2DSVQWQk4o9VxFIUA6C6J3_3KFhv4ySK4YTFFFO1AMh-V1FiY60JlpX9x2-Eh4Ny23jTrvIE_NnmKx2kV3hhCy8IiOFdV3tYMaRnuteU0_usHLY_tVO1K_F1oFEB0e-hy5Kvuhi-iU9o/s400/bike.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yannick Ngabo, 19, a former member of the Rwandan national cycling squad, who took me on a bike tour around Musanze. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyt1iS75rd9voeXpLy10pcXl6Xy-aqfAEQ1YfWwyrGRQGDNt3rcZjNZwac0eHG3bBFBD2Gbk0xPwWMVnsX_0XqJp6cb0iwfXdzhKMUbj0ByEdewS5OfqyAC9IDhdtfD0Ht3V9orTrPMCM/s1600/chat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyt1iS75rd9voeXpLy10pcXl6Xy-aqfAEQ1YfWwyrGRQGDNt3rcZjNZwac0eHG3bBFBD2Gbk0xPwWMVnsX_0XqJp6cb0iwfXdzhKMUbj0ByEdewS5OfqyAC9IDhdtfD0Ht3V9orTrPMCM/s400/chat.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Gentleman with henna-dyed beard chewing <em>chat</em> (a mildly narcotic leaf) by the roadside in Harar, Ethiopia. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf4KnU3eNzVV_KvWhhjyX_EwWrxNgaiVt_Ph3xUUqnLjbAC7TBR-IxJXUbHwoIPavldnX-inkZhOK_Wjec33QnCbEOVPvoYYWdTs9ycgpLC-k0OWBIldt5SbCIq2Rh24F3RxeopL91Yxk/s1600/dominos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf4KnU3eNzVV_KvWhhjyX_EwWrxNgaiVt_Ph3xUUqnLjbAC7TBR-IxJXUbHwoIPavldnX-inkZhOK_Wjec33QnCbEOVPvoYYWdTs9ycgpLC-k0OWBIldt5SbCIq2Rh24F3RxeopL91Yxk/s400/dominos.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Men playing dominoes by the main square in Harar, Ethiopia.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdkwzLj28rdxG2YY_YsTGmG_UZS4RfhEY88w4nZMIeN7M7Fwr_30x_RdC5G8hj9JupP-veXj1U7WiGvQepPemFa_14Wd2Bd-832G5Buk_qvZBykkcv6C7gTDnVfVGpDTovboTpEEntFs/s1600/guest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdkwzLj28rdxG2YY_YsTGmG_UZS4RfhEY88w4nZMIeN7M7Fwr_30x_RdC5G8hj9JupP-veXj1U7WiGvQepPemFa_14Wd2Bd-832G5Buk_qvZBykkcv6C7gTDnVfVGpDTovboTpEEntFs/s400/guest.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">A young wedding guest plays up for the camera in Axum, Ethiopia.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXRcvaNFiJfYQisJ-xmLHoFLg-u3ApfRvmxu5UUjjnQaq2s-c2YIpsZ0ujzRWr82Pc8i8yClDZb4zXGBpKiKUI2Ct3NYgdcV3VgeTPoF2T9H1aj1IzE-z55v5xsUZLbVV0T3-AixQG1zk/s1600/girlinfield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXRcvaNFiJfYQisJ-xmLHoFLg-u3ApfRvmxu5UUjjnQaq2s-c2YIpsZ0ujzRWr82Pc8i8yClDZb4zXGBpKiKUI2Ct3NYgdcV3VgeTPoF2T9H1aj1IzE-z55v5xsUZLbVV0T3-AixQG1zk/s400/girlinfield.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">A girl takes a break from looking after her donkeys in the fields outside Axum, Ethiopia.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwveM9fjEQy0-doMCJyqqT92vvtMj6ee_aIdWhuQgN-CVL7YQhRekWDGlDQ-COFUr3c2aCf_5eQ5789CjcTxPaauWl_3kHmsrWk-KB7pbEjXt_Jfo72MGpVunsdQ1cpWHKuUwOt-IY96A/s1600/goatherd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwveM9fjEQy0-doMCJyqqT92vvtMj6ee_aIdWhuQgN-CVL7YQhRekWDGlDQ-COFUr3c2aCf_5eQ5789CjcTxPaauWl_3kHmsrWk-KB7pbEjXt_Jfo72MGpVunsdQ1cpWHKuUwOt-IY96A/s400/goatherd.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">A<strong> </strong>girl and her goats near Axum, Ethiopia.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh64RmkYbzTA7O-kYljg0epEJ0icArClXr8uMmlUX7oALS76mHgmKHU4ePt5zWVqe0kb2IOuRmQgg3CabaZHcR1qlR9CNgW6zGmC5WrCELha18hEWJ_w6fGADuIsLHncCuP001uKcwMvPc/s1600/priest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh64RmkYbzTA7O-kYljg0epEJ0icArClXr8uMmlUX7oALS76mHgmKHU4ePt5zWVqe0kb2IOuRmQgg3CabaZHcR1qlR9CNgW6zGmC5WrCELha18hEWJ_w6fGADuIsLHncCuP001uKcwMvPc/s400/priest.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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A super-friendly priest holding a processional cross in a rock-hewn church at Lalibela, Ethiopia.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrlVJr-Ni_WMNlbcWEeuhPhHipxlmCqshY3-sQSNJKzFRTWc4IuICeVKgesd1c6SRnXa80tqKho7djiHWd1c8ZBAsWRE15C_HeQ9_FBZ3Qd5q-DKd1Q8cQzZoiPNUW_Une-HqVLLCgGqE/s1600/hirut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrlVJr-Ni_WMNlbcWEeuhPhHipxlmCqshY3-sQSNJKzFRTWc4IuICeVKgesd1c6SRnXa80tqKho7djiHWd1c8ZBAsWRE15C_HeQ9_FBZ3Qd5q-DKd1Q8cQzZoiPNUW_Une-HqVLLCgGqE/s400/hirut.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hirut, a schoolgirl from Lalibela, Ethiopia. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMxwJBcLIHqaiwCX3aNmZgIBwyICBNMFIU1cZi1gXw7yGtklp9H5oDqd67YZS551PYbSjmA6CMi9o-5YIgqQGGLprRpx6xet7ATemt1TsrSC590Ew31D28u1FVG1skP20cVJb2sO848vU/s1600/sisay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMxwJBcLIHqaiwCX3aNmZgIBwyICBNMFIU1cZi1gXw7yGtklp9H5oDqd67YZS551PYbSjmA6CMi9o-5YIgqQGGLprRpx6xet7ATemt1TsrSC590Ew31D28u1FVG1skP20cVJb2sO848vU/s400/sisay.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Sisay, my guide during a hike to the mountaintop monastery of Asheton Maryam, Lalibela, Ethiopia. </div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Daneal, a history teacher from Bahir Dar, Ethiopia.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjabZruULFSN04ZtksXumkfITr4WkQgXIyo8YE3Uw6MLHdNEUeIBf3vz_XT2FWlRnNdC7G0A42SM2YolJ_0PTVvnHZnlzc50muW10tMSc88ulyQMdRbh8YXXyyxOSQrlbggo7mOAFIVILY/s1600/fire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjabZruULFSN04ZtksXumkfITr4WkQgXIyo8YE3Uw6MLHdNEUeIBf3vz_XT2FWlRnNdC7G0A42SM2YolJ_0PTVvnHZnlzc50muW10tMSc88ulyQMdRbh8YXXyyxOSQrlbggo7mOAFIVILY/s400/fire.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bruktawit and her daughter at Meskel celebrations in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.</span></span></span></span><br />
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pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-75438036799922529052016-10-30T00:45:00.005-07:002017-05-08T23:48:07.385-07:00People I met on the way #1<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I met a lot of people on my trip, not just my favourite aunties and old comrades. Here are just a few, most of whom haven't yet featured in this blog. <b>Thanks for helping make my trip so memorable.</b></span></span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A fisherman takes a break on the wharf at Muscat, Oman. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A member of a theatre group parades through Bilbao, Spain, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Alfonso celebrates getting his final stamp on the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage, Santiago de Compostella, Spain. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Martin and <span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Markéta</span></span>, members of a Moravian folk group I met at a festival in Romania's Apuseni Mountains. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cheesemakers Helen and Pepe, who gave me a lift in the Picos de Europa Mountains, Spain. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kind (but rather shy) school canteen cook, <span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">České Budějovice, Czech Republic. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Natalia, possibly the most glamorous police officer I've met, and her mum Nina at the Merry Cemetery in <span style="font-family: inherit;">Sapan<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ţ</span>a</span>, Romania. Natalia not only gave me a lift while I was hitch-hiking to this curiously jolly graveyard, she also insisted on paying my entry fee. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Village woman selling blueberries gathered in the forest, Sighetu <span style="font-family: inherit;">Marama<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ţ</span>iei</span>, Romania.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ioana, keyholder to a medieval wooden church in Ieud, Romania.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Irina, my 70-year-old self-appointed guide when I was looking for a path between the villages of Ieud and Botiza, Romania. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDkPOHFRS4FNv4qb05aWdreX5mpUDdO8pMip18s7DLmMqbmfdOYbNWA4BvSDJEhjN-a-3fjMS7CU4tf6DQR3lZ_ZvLJCcYfgXFLxjrgqIJZ_th0Z-fjEKECR4EafvkqdsyAZhaP83JYr0/s1600/poles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDkPOHFRS4FNv4qb05aWdreX5mpUDdO8pMip18s7DLmMqbmfdOYbNWA4BvSDJEhjN-a-3fjMS7CU4tf6DQR3lZ_ZvLJCcYfgXFLxjrgqIJZ_th0Z-fjEKECR4EafvkqdsyAZhaP83JYr0/s400/poles.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Polish brothers (and avid hat collectors) Jacek and Marcin at a hat stall on top of the Prislop Pass, Romania. The brothers gave me a lift halfway across northern Romania, saving me at least a day's travel and a gruelling bus ride through the mountains. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Marius, a shepherd from Romania's Ukrainian-speaking minority, keeps an eye on his flock near Sighetu <span style="font-family: inherit;">Marama<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ţ</span>iei</span>. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A highly entertaining goatherd I met in the hills above <span style="font-family: inherit;">Sighi<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ş</span>oara</span>, Romania. I didn't need to speak Romanian to understand the grubby jokes he was telling about his goats. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I met this lady when she was trying to sell some kittens on the main street of <span style="font-family: inherit;">Chi<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ş</span>in<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ă</span>u</span>, Moldova. She was there from dawn until after dark. The kittens were priced at 35 lei, about NZ$2 each.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Brother Ifiemi was a lovely orthodox monk I met at Orheiul Vechi in Moldova. The former electrician had spent the past 13 years living in a cave carved into a cliff side.</span></div>
pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-31513097719039875012016-10-29T00:46:00.004-07:002017-05-10T03:32:20.838-07:00Things I love about the Czech Republic #3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>1. The Kostelec sausage man</b></div>
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Is this the world's most homo-erotic company logo? It was designed almost 100 years ago when a picture of a camp-looking gentleman sucking on a large sausage was perfectly good marketing. Kudos to the company for sticking with their logo, which you can still see around the Czech Republic on tinned meats, trucks and billboards. The only thing about the logo that seems to have changed since I first arrived in the Czech Republic is the removal of the juice dripping from Sausage Man's chin. I do hope Sausage Man will still be there next time I'm perusing the cold meats section of a Czech supermarket. <br />
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<b>2. Station masters</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRdDRRv3NbVK2Fgch8FASY_UqfLCx3OGrnNklXCZllwNyRAr5sIl7r-dT7UZSsQwInjdypacXDx3Avcz4IrRYo1RqYnjIoCi8hlSFRPIAzoD3U1dvzgnF2NJUcNTvnI8zdz0SFzyGeXZs/s1600/master1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRdDRRv3NbVK2Fgch8FASY_UqfLCx3OGrnNklXCZllwNyRAr5sIl7r-dT7UZSsQwInjdypacXDx3Avcz4IrRYo1RqYnjIoCi8hlSFRPIAzoD3U1dvzgnF2NJUcNTvnI8zdz0SFzyGeXZs/s400/master1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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One of the joys of travelling around the Czech Republic is the sight of small-town station masters, wearing their official Czech Rail-issued red caps, standing to attention as your train rushes by. They're a charming reminder of the railways of times gone by but, alas, their days are numbered. A few decades ago even the smallest railway station had a station master but they're no longer employed at single-track stations. Ongoing automatisation of the Czech rail system means they'll soon be obsolete at multi-track stations as well. <i>Na shledanou...</i></div>
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<b>3. The right to walk anywhere</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcz7MTMNImhiHXMpUzUx7CwW4-kwc5aKOwq7KaKQacbNmSoM4RbnryPl2XL8FRtONutmejuxUdZqtYdDcavKF9g_PS8MIe0UP_9ZTnYpf3yXFQEpBoNAtfJuVFGfb06DWOjyNQ2x9Ug6E/s1600/walk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcz7MTMNImhiHXMpUzUx7CwW4-kwc5aKOwq7KaKQacbNmSoM4RbnryPl2XL8FRtONutmejuxUdZqtYdDcavKF9g_PS8MIe0UP_9ZTnYpf3yXFQEpBoNAtfJuVFGfb06DWOjyNQ2x9Ug6E/s400/walk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Okay, it's not exactly a right, but the fact is you can walk just about anywhere in the Czech Republic. A network of trails branches out from just about every train and bus station in the country, winding over farmland, through forests and along rivers. Fences are as rare as 'no trespassing' signs. I put it down to the Czech love of hiking and - even though it's almost 30 years since the Velvet Revolution - because the idea of private ownership of the countryside has yet to become fully entrenched. <i>(That's my mate Simon, a keen walker, </i><i>in the picture</i><i> with his dog in the woods near Olomouc.)</i></div>
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You can also check out lists <a href="http://2016tour.blogspot.co.nz/2016/06/things-i-love-about-czech-republic_28.html" target="_blank">#1</a> and <a href="http://2016tour.blogspot.co.nz/2016/08/things-i-love-about-czech-republic-2.html" target="_blank">#2</a> of things I love about the Czech Republic. </div>
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pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-37713095402903252042016-10-25T00:48:00.002-07:002016-10-25T00:48:12.749-07:00Video: Ethiopian wedding<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/aTc-4gMvTgQ/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/aTc-4gMvTgQ?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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During one afternoon in Axum, northern Ethiopia, I stumbled over <b>five weddings</b>. This is one of them. Note the bride and groom's costumes, the women's intricate hairstyles, and the musical instruments - a traditional one-string fiddle and flutes made from lengths of steel pipe.</div>
<br />pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-81585932153467883862016-10-24T23:55:00.004-07:002016-10-24T23:57:29.042-07:00Video: Street scene in Ethiopia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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This was the <b>view from my balcony</b> at Hotel Belayneh in Harar, eastern Ethiopia. I could have sat there all day watching the <span style="background-color: transparent;">beggars, the tuktuks, the haggling over chat (a mildly narcotic leaf), the women in brightly coloured dresses like tropical parrots, the porters carrying huge loads on their heads, the donkeys, the stray dogs... Every corner of Harar is bursting with life and in places like this, next to the Shoa Gate Market, it never stops. </span></div>
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pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-81398830261185977282016-10-24T22:26:00.002-07:002016-10-24T23:58:09.423-07:00Video flashback: Rwandan dancers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/cQ7TOnGjZZM/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/cQ7TOnGjZZM?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
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More dancing at Jan and Yvette's wedding in Kigali, this time by a <b>Rwandan dance troupe</b>. </div>
<br />pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-46623405693802383802016-10-24T01:42:00.000-07:002016-10-24T23:56:29.323-07:00Video flashback: The bride arrives<br />
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The <b>bridal party arrives</b> at Jan and Yvette's wedding venue on a hilltop in Kigali, led by a group of singing aunties. Yvette is at the back accompanied by her brothers and a nephew carrying spears.pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-72264001385243508212016-10-24T01:28:00.004-07:002016-10-24T01:28:43.197-07:00Video flashback: Burundi drummers at Jan and Yvette's wedding<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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The tiny and troubled country of Burundi, Rwanda's southern neighbour, has (so I'm told) <b>the best drummers in Africa</b>. So when Jan and Yvette got married in Kigali in August they of course hired a drumming troupe from Burundi - here's a couple of video clips of them performing for Jan and his best man before the arrival of the bridal party. All these drummers are refugees from Burundi now living in Rwanda.<br />
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<br />pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-46243625213390221982016-10-23T18:07:00.003-07:002016-10-23T18:21:28.372-07:002016tour: Best and worst accommodation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Ju8qqA4JhetJ9CUKmP3vlRRVqPfdpjYpkyiKUAH6iMRQEbSTrBEXF2iTwL8QSD3gheeDQU12vhVc4ZhvJexDCa9g2G994am5H2z4_k1kR6dlf8j4q6STNzzJqI8U9uX3ebJpCwSgYCY/s1600/muscat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="449" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Ju8qqA4JhetJ9CUKmP3vlRRVqPfdpjYpkyiKUAH6iMRQEbSTrBEXF2iTwL8QSD3gheeDQU12vhVc4ZhvJexDCa9g2G994am5H2z4_k1kR6dlf8j4q6STNzzJqI8U9uX3ebJpCwSgYCY/s640/muscat.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>View from Naseem Hotel, Muscat</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I stayed in a lot of places during my <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">2016 Favourite Aunties and Old Comrades Reunion Tour, ranging from haybarns and broken-down fleapits to a fancy-pants eco-resort. Because everyone loves a list here's a rundown of the <b>best and worst places I stayed</b>...</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Best view </span></b></h3>
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The title for best view goes to Naseem Hotel, in Muscat, Oman. Accommodation in Oman didn't come cheap (18 rials, almost NZ$80 a night) so when I booked a bed I demanded a room with a view. The photo above is the view from my window over Muscat's old harbour, mountains, a medieval fort and the Sultan's private yacht. </div>
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<b>Best free accommodation</b></h3>
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Prize for best free lodgings goes to this hay barn in the hills of Maramures, northern Romania. Warm, dry and comfy, and check out the view that greeted me when the mist cleared in the morning. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaHoI8hm-eEygyahdsePvFjXjVadDXkQ-xTlz7_IjdtSlgKFY730DA8Z_dB50fyBid1rPbPZrL6nc2-KOBoOOE2LCNqo7WuWWSyJTxul6BZ2DCHk7k2LOaJc4wrjqyWMdeF3MDl_io6BQ/s1600/ro_barn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaHoI8hm-eEygyahdsePvFjXjVadDXkQ-xTlz7_IjdtSlgKFY730DA8Z_dB50fyBid1rPbPZrL6nc2-KOBoOOE2LCNqo7WuWWSyJTxul6BZ2DCHk7k2LOaJc4wrjqyWMdeF3MDl_io6BQ/s400/ro_barn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<i>The prize for best free lodgings goes to...</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNjj1eNigjUHnQ8nqO6FBQOywocjpuJN2-dLNG9_CCfWqzaxI6pRRQj5ak8P58aYSkMrKZiOrb-yM2yHh7FaGMsyC8ilZXZHs-xV8HAiOysmQbM2rmFIV7VxCpjjkc5x7onbdtSr8NICA/s1600/barn_view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNjj1eNigjUHnQ8nqO6FBQOywocjpuJN2-dLNG9_CCfWqzaxI6pRRQj5ak8P58aYSkMrKZiOrb-yM2yHh7FaGMsyC8ilZXZHs-xV8HAiOysmQbM2rmFIV7VxCpjjkc5x7onbdtSr8NICA/s400/barn_view.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<i>View from my lodgings in Maramures, Romania</i><br />
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<b>Highest accommodation</b></h3>
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No, we're not talking about Amsterdam, but a hikers' hut - <i>refugio </i>in Spanish - at 1634m in the Picos de Europa mountains of northern Spain. Cold but the views were awe-inspiring. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrB5TFnvhC4xVmi7GtPI8vx2AwO7MaNA6PWz4sHmcX7pV7dZ7tZvvJEh2Uvw6YLorxR67atGmCFzZfSq79NoqTGp8vOtzVFM1FX9VD61UdadslvoJVmKhIcFYCTCtwjc2pxYZtjjwT1lU/s1600/picos1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrB5TFnvhC4xVmi7GtPI8vx2AwO7MaNA6PWz4sHmcX7pV7dZ7tZvvJEh2Uvw6YLorxR67atGmCFzZfSq79NoqTGp8vOtzVFM1FX9VD61UdadslvoJVmKhIcFYCTCtwjc2pxYZtjjwT1lU/s400/picos1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #6e6e6e; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Refugio Vega de Ario</i></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8QDtJeOySSPWGu_xJLfDgZafken3_BPHqBlpqG2VPiPyPh_pNL77LxYd54RXlt9axT1coHF6JrSgQtF21-8WxjY058cSPAF3O0vP-kW4VFDlIudIvcQBDMYAmy7SGR-2jRFQMCrh3Q-Y/s1600/picos2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8QDtJeOySSPWGu_xJLfDgZafken3_BPHqBlpqG2VPiPyPh_pNL77LxYd54RXlt9axT1coHF6JrSgQtF21-8WxjY058cSPAF3O0vP-kW4VFDlIudIvcQBDMYAmy7SGR-2jRFQMCrh3Q-Y/s400/picos2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<i><i>That's the refugio in the bottom right corner of the photo</i></i><i></i><br />
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<b>Most Soviet</b></h3>
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In the breakway statelet of Transnistria, sandwiched between Moldova and Ukraine, I stayed in this flashback to the Soviet Union. The Hotel Aist has not been redecorated or repaired since the collapse of the USSR in 1991 - though the staff were super-helpful, not a typical Soviet characteristic. Felt like I was time travelling. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9QQZLUMqftkjoitNJK0kB9Bi9TW2PPbXNoPahUCOFrQ3NhW10HLdRP-n0PIYbp-ySHk1N2f96uL8ENFiE-Iw5SMD4TLED8h7lIb8hi5I4e3mm7L5GaRETgPB1FGLy9Z28zhekj1MegOI/s1600/trans_hotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9QQZLUMqftkjoitNJK0kB9Bi9TW2PPbXNoPahUCOFrQ3NhW10HLdRP-n0PIYbp-ySHk1N2f96uL8ENFiE-Iw5SMD4TLED8h7lIb8hi5I4e3mm7L5GaRETgPB1FGLy9Z28zhekj1MegOI/s400/trans_hotel.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Hotel Aist in Tiraspol, Transnistria</i></div>
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<i><i>Classic Soviet bathroom design </i></i><i></i><br />
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<i>View from my balcony (yes, I had my own balcony!) towards the River Dnister</i></div>
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Most desperate</h3>
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During a washed-out folk festival in Romania's Apuseni Mountains I was pretty desperate for a dry place to sleep. The few B&Bs in the nearby villages had been booked out weeks earlier and the rain was too heavy for a heavy-duty tent to withstand, let alone the flimsy sheet of plastic and bits of string I'd brought along... Luckily I found a dry spot above a chicken coop (the lean-to tacked on to the side of the barn in the photo below) where I sheltered for two nights. I'm sure the farmer knew but he was too decent to kick me out. </div>
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<i><i>My home for two nights in Romania's Apuseni Mountains</i></i><i></i><br />
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Friendliest accommodation</h3>
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This coveted title goes to IQ Hostel in Chisinau, the capital of Moldova. This wee hostel - two cramped dorm rooms, with an equally crowded living room, kitchen and bathroom is owned by two young men with their friends and cousins helping out as staff. I've never stayed in a backpackers hostel where the staff were friendlier, more helpful or more concerned for my welfare. After a few days I felt like family. Saying goodbye was tough. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9px4OHFTFp3ehbGwq9A_u8E6iIJh6JbmGULxLjIsYRpwo_xKvC1Xu07pVkFeXhEOaA31J0-cdYRt-PEZu41gWqS65Zpt1IAE6FEFOiuL4KN7E3PPa3JocOTdx4YaCAbs2Ga2VYQjLvGY/s1600/iq.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9px4OHFTFp3ehbGwq9A_u8E6iIJh6JbmGULxLjIsYRpwo_xKvC1Xu07pVkFeXhEOaA31J0-cdYRt-PEZu41gWqS65Zpt1IAE6FEFOiuL4KN7E3PPa3JocOTdx4YaCAbs2Ga2VYQjLvGY/s400/iq.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">IQ Hostel staff <span style="background-color: white;">Alex, Dana and Daniel. </span></span></i></div>
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Runner-up in the friendliest accommodation category goes to the super-obliging Murugo Hostel in Kigali, Rwanda. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHVgpIpP_AXwImeHlVOwSDm3aJRkh2OnNWEn45Hi5r40K-3EbKpmR6jRZg5Ai8TUBHVIGzkZA1CfFCOI3nYclHVRqt7TK4vEK8DQPPKrER0c7d2Syy0Si11fiCDeQm6CyWfIM1_dYAbw4/s1600/kigali.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHVgpIpP_AXwImeHlVOwSDm3aJRkh2OnNWEn45Hi5r40K-3EbKpmR6jRZg5Ai8TUBHVIGzkZA1CfFCOI3nYclHVRqt7TK4vEK8DQPPKrER0c7d2Syy0Si11fiCDeQm6CyWfIM1_dYAbw4/s400/kigali.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Evode, a worker at super-friendly Murugo Hostel in Kigali, Rwanda. </i></div>
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Fanciest accommodation</h3>
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The most luxurious place I stayed was Butuceni Eco Resort in a village in Moldova. It's a cluster of historic village houses, each of which has been turned into a villa combining creature comforts with traditional decor and furniture. It's the only place I've stayed where I could choose between indoor and outdoor pools; the other guests were wealthy Russians. By Moldovan standards it was a bit of a splurge but it didn't cost much more than a bed in a backpacker's hostel in Western Europe. And it was a lot friendlier...</div>
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<i>Butuceni Eco Resort, Moldova</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi477F1A20UV9TeBE6Lfug8p-sRTMABNb9Qcf2wqFMfr4nA3B0-GobGM_hT9mN_ZVSaWe4OuicNUxfU2vr8j0cFpfcs01NHR7hj0Jn6SIuDAeMhtrY0YLyUG8IwQV74Xjw7Ihoodp-uCZ4/s1600/but_brekkie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi477F1A20UV9TeBE6Lfug8p-sRTMABNb9Qcf2wqFMfr4nA3B0-GobGM_hT9mN_ZVSaWe4OuicNUxfU2vr8j0cFpfcs01NHR7hj0Jn6SIuDAeMhtrY0YLyUG8IwQV74Xjw7Ihoodp-uCZ4/s400/but_brekkie.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Traditional Moldovan breakfast at <span style="background-color: whitesmoke; font-family: inherit;">Butuceni Eco Resort</span></i></div>
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Liveliest view</h3>
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The balconies at Belayneh Hotel, in Harar in eastern Ethiopia. look out over the fantastically lively Shoa Gate Market. I could have sat on my balcony for days just watching the comings and goings of tuktuks, beggars, women dressed in colours like tropical parrots, porters balancing stacks of mattresses on their heads, and buyers and seller haggling over <i>chat </i>(a mildly narcotic leaf). I say I <i>could </i>have watched for days - but I didn't because the Belayneh also won the prize for worst bedbugs. They were even bigger than the cockroaches. </div>
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<i>View from Belayneh Hotel in Harar, Ethiopia. </i></div>
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This hotly contested title goes to the Continental Hotel (yes, that really is its name) in Dire Dawa, eastern Ethiopia. The lights and fan were operated by sticking a bare wire into a socket, the windows were broken, and with no running water I had to fetch a bucket of water any time I wanted to wash or flush the communal loos. I wouldn't have minded except that they had the cheek to charge me an inflated foreigner rate of 150 birr, about NZ$10. </div>
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<i>Continental </i><i>Hotel </i><i>in Dire Dawa, eastern Ethiopia</i></div>
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Best value</h3>
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The night after the Continental Hotel I stayed in Africa Hotel in Axum, northern Ethiopia. For 200 birr (about NZ$12) I got a large room so clean I could have eaten off the gleaming floor, an en suite bathroom with unlimited running hot water (!) and free airport pick-up and drop-off. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimwOj1eWGpOvkBu6TjFzZNYEmuB8Bk3a_B0MYlNPJBJkfz04FgDAo857BQq8hzSYjoXmy7RQJvJ55RMUTBOzsezYXEXmOKTcMxwRnv8b3HLngeCTB0HxBBwUG692v9YO1kWxvDNuumP5I/s1600/axum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimwOj1eWGpOvkBu6TjFzZNYEmuB8Bk3a_B0MYlNPJBJkfz04FgDAo857BQq8hzSYjoXmy7RQJvJ55RMUTBOzsezYXEXmOKTcMxwRnv8b3HLngeCTB0HxBBwUG692v9YO1kWxvDNuumP5I/s400/axum.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Africa Hotel in Axum, northern Ethiopia</i></div>
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Prettiest accommodation </h3>
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The prettiest place I stayed was Rowda Cultural Guesthouse in Harar, eastern Ethiopia. This is a traditional, centuries-old home turned into a B&B, with a peaceful courtyard and every square inch of the interiors decorated in the age-old Harari manner with carved bowls, spears, baskets and carpets. I was made to feel at home - at least, I was made to feel like a 12-year-old when I was still at home... Harar is a conservative town and Rowda sets a 9pm curfew (which I ignored). Worth it though to get a first-hand look at a traditional home. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggseQIxohK7-dl24WCIAH6E7lGHTJaMvJI_Y-C3IjVbpWMfimvQYutnIhLa7iKbQmC64fnapjzS-NHls2dtL2JJ9XLzCI6vlqdOW1r4N3ONUjXAfqADkew20S6Hp385Mk8ESbfojiZa5c/s1600/harar_int.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggseQIxohK7-dl24WCIAH6E7lGHTJaMvJI_Y-C3IjVbpWMfimvQYutnIhLa7iKbQmC64fnapjzS-NHls2dtL2JJ9XLzCI6vlqdOW1r4N3ONUjXAfqADkew20S6Hp385Mk8ESbfojiZa5c/s400/harar_int.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Inside Rowda Cultural Guesthouse, in Harar, Ethiopia</i></div>
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<i>The courtyard of Rowda Cultural Guesthouse</i></div>
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<br />pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-56611898263370787332016-10-03T14:50:00.001-07:002016-10-03T15:01:38.560-07:00The end. Well, almost<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVfURoUME7dJE4UyZKOuZNx7dzisPcMhktUCZNaSTvnjQ0xAdq3-lRb6ZtsNTHQe9Zo4ju_FQdRghL8VvoBB85LjDDxKn0y0_dcsf4Ap2PpzKgx0Abwli8zbTQUs6QcS09zcVYdse4vc0/s1600/hirut.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVfURoUME7dJE4UyZKOuZNx7dzisPcMhktUCZNaSTvnjQ0xAdq3-lRb6ZtsNTHQe9Zo4ju_FQdRghL8VvoBB85LjDDxKn0y0_dcsf4Ap2PpzKgx0Abwli8zbTQUs6QcS09zcVYdse4vc0/s400/hirut.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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So, this is it. The <b>2016 Favourite Aunties and Old Comrades Reunion Tour</b> has come to an end. I have seen my favourite aunties, dozens of cousins and more old friends than I can count. I've seen a cousin get married in Africa, climbed mountains in Spain and Rwanda, taught the haka to Czech school kids, and explored a Soviet time-warp in a country that officially doesn't exist. On Thursday night I'll be back home in Kerikeri and on Saturday I'll be back at work. This isn't the end of my blog, however: I still have a heap of videos to post plus I'm hoping to compile a few photo galleries and a list of highlights and lowlights. So watch this space...</div>
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<b>Mystery solved</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht-lCpBDrBj4c1lDfUbzfHCWAyNXATX-B20216j-2bockIrCkeoFJ9iTFn_pwdnnMGhcy8rXZxEcNrNosZSdt5UkQRoVPiWY7SyNBnr5aPd7_FZQ9nGwdG77r8tcBCe95YJ9RQCOLl74E/s1600/cake.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht-lCpBDrBj4c1lDfUbzfHCWAyNXATX-B20216j-2bockIrCkeoFJ9iTFn_pwdnnMGhcy8rXZxEcNrNosZSdt5UkQRoVPiWY7SyNBnr5aPd7_FZQ9nGwdG77r8tcBCe95YJ9RQCOLl74E/s320/cake.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I wasn't looking forward to the long flight home from Ethiopia but it turned out to be a breeze. When I went to check in online I found that someone had already booked me the best seat on the plane all the way from Dubai to Auckland; then during the flight Emirates staff gave me a cake (see picture above). I assumed it was a mistake - surely it was meant for someone celebrating a birthday? - but it was labelled with my name and seat number. I had to eat it all before I reached biosecurity in Auckland; fortunately, a few fellow passengers volunteered to help me out. No one on board could tell me why I was being singled out for special treatment. The mystery has now, however, been solved. It turns out it was the work of my awesome travel agent <a href="http://2016tour.blogspot.co.nz/2016/04/two-weeks-to-go.html" target="_blank">Aimee Ruka</a>. Cheers Aimee! </div>
<br />pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-64080823823684860982016-10-02T20:26:00.000-07:002016-10-02T20:26:55.809-07:00Ethiopia's most colourful festival?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The end of my stay in Ethiopia coincided with one of the country's most colourful festivals, <b>Meskel </b>(known in English as the Finding of the True Cross or sometimes as the Exaltation of the True Cross). According to Ethiopian tradition St Helena was looking for Christ's cross in the 4th century when she was told in a dream to light a large bonfire - she did as instructed, added frankincense to the blaze, and watched as the smoke rose into the sky then returned to the ground. She started digging where the smoke touched the ground and discovered the cross. </div>
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Every September 26, on the eve of Meskel, Ethiopians gather by the thousands to dance, pray, chant, make music and light tall, tapering bonfires. I went to the biggest celebration of them all, on Meskel Square in Addis Ababa. The security was over the top (I've never been frisked so much in my life) and I kept being turned back by jumpy policemen, but on the fourth attempt I got through the police lines. Once on the square I was spotted by a friendly soldier who ushered me to a front-row seat. </div>
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Thousands of people took part in the celebrations which culminated in the lighting of a large bonfire in the middle of the square while the crowd lit candles, prayed and sang. It was an amazing spectacle. I'll let the pictures tell the rest of the story...</div>
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<br />pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-22635302699456076882016-10-02T16:02:00.001-07:002016-10-02T16:02:20.572-07:00The monk and the sunbeam<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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A monk is lit up by a sunbeam in a 12th-century church carved from solid rock at Lalibela, Ethiopia. The monk was unimpressed with the photo but I'm pretty pleased with it. </div>
<br />pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-38232377294727892162016-10-02T15:54:00.000-07:002016-10-03T14:22:25.945-07:00A mountaintop monastery<br />
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<i><span style="color: #666666;">The path to Asheten Maryam Monastery passes through green fields of wheat and </span></i><span style="color: #666666;">tef</span><i><span style="color: #666666;">, an Ethiopian grain</span></i></div>
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On my last day in Lalibela I hiked up to a monastery called Asheten Maryam where 15 monks live <b>atop a 3150m-high mountain</b>, in their words, "to be closer to God". The monastery itself is unspectacular but the walk, through villages, fields and wildflowers, past streams of people and mules lugging supplies up the mountain, and finally through a narrow cleft in the cliffs, was fabulous. I had to hire a guide this time because I couldn't have found the monastery on my own; that's him below. He's a lovely fellow, named Sisay, and unlike many guides here he doesn't talk incessantly so I could just get on with enjoying the scenery. </div>
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<span style="color: #666666;"><i>Sisay, my guide to Asheten Maryam</i></span></div>
pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-73747955670719753112016-10-02T15:40:00.004-07:002016-10-02T15:40:40.453-07:00Ethiopia's coolest restaurant<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Is this a set from a 1960s sci-fi movie? A hippy house in California? A UFO landing pad? It is in fact a restaurant called <b>Ben Abeba</b>, built on a cliff edge in Lalibela by a Scottish-Ethiopian couple. The views are jaw-dropping (see the picture below) and the food's not bad either... </div>
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<br />pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-37092176004919271342016-10-01T17:56:00.001-07:002016-10-01T17:56:23.034-07:00Ethiopia's wonders of the world<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Ethiopia is bursting with ancient churches - it's the world's oldest Christian country after Armenia - but one place stands out. At Lalibela Ethiopia's medieval kings created a series of churches, not by building them from the ground up but by <b>carving them from solid rock</b>. The largest churches are 15m high (which meant cutting 15m down through hard volcanic rock); some have been worn down by time but others remain in superb condition almost 1000 years later. </div>
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<span style="color: #666666;"><i>Bet Gyorgis (St George) is the most famous of Lalibela's carved churches </i></span></div>
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pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-65928502712111962392016-10-01T17:40:00.001-07:002016-10-01T17:40:47.412-07:00The wedding crasher<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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I stumbled on a <b>traditional Ethiopian wedding</b> while I was visiting the northern city of Axum. Sometimes Ethiopians aren't keen to be photographed but in this case I was allowed to tag along and take pictures. I was even dragged into a few of the official wedding photos. </div>
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Weddings are a big deal here. This one involved fabulous costumes, a band playing drums and flutes made from lengths of steel pipe, parasols, lots of singing, clapping and dancing, and a carriage drawn by a white horse. This was one of five wedding parties I bumped into during one day in Axum. </div>
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<span style="color: #666666;"><i>Young wedding guests pose for a photo </i></span></div>
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pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-51470776996358414322016-10-01T17:28:00.000-07:002017-05-10T03:38:46.522-07:00The green, green grass of Ethiopia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Some of my happiest times in Ethiopia have been when I took a break from cities and historic sights to just wander around aimlessly in the countryside, and one of my favourite walks was in the hills around the northern town of Axum. Right now the wet season is coming to an end so the Ethiopian countryside is <b>gloriously, brilliantly green</b> with fields of wheat and <i>tef </i>(an Ethiopian grain used to make their staple food, <i>injera</i>). </div>
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<span style="color: #666666;"><i>A girl takes a break from guarding her goats in the fields near Axum</i></span></div>
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<br />pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-21324921464173413752016-10-01T17:18:00.004-07:002016-10-01T17:18:44.493-07:00The Ark of the Covenant <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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According to Ethiopian tradition the <b>Ark of the Covenant</b> - Christendom's greatest treasure, said to contain the stone tablets God gave to Moses atop Mt Sinai - is kept in this small chapel in the northern Ethiopian town of Axum. Only one priest is allowed to see the Ark and this was as close as I could get to the holiest place in Ethiopia (there were plenty of grumpy church guards to make sure I didn't venture any nearer). Someone should tell Indiana Jones he was looking in the wrong place...</div>
<br />pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-67119934900688698482016-10-01T17:09:00.001-07:002016-10-01T17:09:43.939-07:00Breakfast in Ethiopia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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As much as I loathe those tedious foodie blogs I have to share a photo of my <b>favourite meal in Ethiopia</b> - breakfast at Ezana Cafe in the northern town of Axum. It's a mix of fuul (bean puree), scrambled eggs and yoghurt, served in a battered metal dish and washed down with tea. Great way to start the day. </div>
pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-32276839771049410732016-10-01T16:41:00.007-07:002016-10-01T16:41:57.835-07:00Monkeying around at the airport<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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To get to Harar in eastern Ethiopia without spending two days on a bus I had to catch a plane to the nearest city, Dire Dawa, which is as dire as its name suggests. However, it has one redeeming feature - a <b>band of monkeys</b> which hang out at the airport, clambering over the airport terminal and running around in the car park. Best pre-flight entertainment I've had. </div>
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Subsequent research tells me these are grivet monkeys, found only in Ethiopia, Sudan and Eritrea. Curiously, the males have bright blue balls. pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-47355918671994808342016-09-30T23:15:00.003-07:002016-10-01T16:47:12.924-07:00Mysteries of Ethiopia: #1 of a potential series of 23,547,902<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Ethiopia is <b>a land of mysteries</b>. I'm not talking about the big ones, like: Is the Ark of the Covenant really hidden inside a small chapel in Axum? Or, how did medieval Ethiopians carve vast churches out of solid rock? No, I mean the little things that baffle me every day and for which I can find no rational explanation. For example, near Shane and Brukty's home is a large pile of gravel. Almost every time I walk past, day or night, a man is seated on a cinder block on top of the pile, wrapped in a purple robe. (When I snapped this photo he had company but he's usually alone.) Is he guarding the gravel? Does he just like the view from up there? Is he one of the city's many thousands of homeless? So far no one has been able to answer my questions...</div>
pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-4361108737288381812016-09-30T23:08:00.002-07:002016-09-30T23:08:45.645-07:00Getting around in Addis Ababa...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<b>...is something of a challenge.</b> It's a sprawling, fast-growing city with very few street signs and locals don't use official street names anyway. There are no set bus routes or timetables and buses aren't marked with route numbers or destinations. Instead, the fare collector hangs out a window shouting the destination as the bus roars past; you have a split-second to recognise the garbled place name then wave down the driver. When people give you directions they do it in terms of landmarks; I have to do the same when asking around for the right minibus (I ask to be let out at the Ambasa bus garage, around the corner from Nexus Hotel). Sometimes the buses or the new Chinese-built light trains are so packed you physically can't get on (or off, once you've managed to squeeze on). The first time I tried to get from the centre to Shane and Brukty's place by public transport it took three hours, sparking fears that I had been abducted or was hopelessly lost. Now, just as I'm about to go home, I have it down pat and can do it in half that time. Oh well...</div>
pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-23909560784138347522016-09-30T23:03:00.003-07:002016-09-30T23:24:48.305-07:00Ethiopia's old soldiers<br />
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The best thing about travel is the unexpected, the chance encounters that happen as you're just wandering around. For example, I was checking out St George's Cathedral in Addis Ababa - built to commemorate the victims of Italy's 1930s invasion of Ethiopia - when a bunch of <b>war veterans</b> turned up for an official photo session. The Italians killed tens, if not hundreds of thousands of Ethiopians, including with poison gas, and the country's war veterans are revered. (The invaders were eventually pushed out, just as they were in the 1890s). I'm not sure if these old soldiers are old enough to have fought in the 1930s but there was no mistaking the respect Ethiopians have for them. It felt a bit like being at an Anzac Day service in New Zealand. I didn't know enough Amharic to say anything to them but I'm sure they understood my salute.</div>
pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3856700113575333073.post-83639609663927875972016-09-30T22:56:00.000-07:002016-09-30T22:56:00.650-07:00Amani's 5th birthday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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My visit here coincided with the 5th birthday of Shane and Brukty's youngest, Amani. Okay, it wasn't his real birthday but his cousins were out of the country at the time so he got to celebrate a second time, with a giant green birthday cake and a cousin in a purple unicorn suit. <b>Happy birthday Amani!</b></div>
pdghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02157103212890052800noreply@blogger.com0