Travel Archives - Page 24 of 39 - Maggie InkMaggie Ink

On board with the mango vampires

February 23, 2011

The Ethiopians are mango vampires.

In this country, fruit is not cleanly sliced with a knife. Instead, the vampire gnaws a hole into the mango’s side, quickly severing its skin. As teeth sink into flesh, practiced fingertips massage the fruit to release mouthfuls of succulent liquid.

Think juice box, minus the box.

That’s why everyone on my bus rejoiced when the vehicle chugged to a stop on a leafy dirt road, just one hour into the journey from Arba Minch to Addis Ababa.

The doors swung open and dozens of fruit sellers bombarded the bus, carrying bundles of bananas, plastic platters of limes and baskets of mangos. It was a flurry of chatter and birr, with bills exchanged for bags of precious produce.

When the bus started up again, the mango vampires sank their teeth in.

Within a couple hours the floor was slippery, sticky and smelled of rotting sweetness. With mango carcasses on the ground and the sugar high long gone, all that remained was 10 more hours of a dusty, bone-jarring ride.

Say wot?

February 22, 2011

Whenever I tell people back home that my favorite cuisine is Ethiopian, I’m met with laughter and jeers.

“What do they serve at Ethiopian restaurants? One grain of rice?”

Har har.

But now I’m getting the last laugh, eating my way around Ethiopia and indulging in this country’s incredibly lush, layered cuisine.

For the uninitiated, here’s what Ethiopian food is all about.

Most dishes revolve around sauces served on injera.

Injera is a bread made from teff flour, not wheat, so it’s naturally gluten-free and doesn’t rest heavy on the stomach. The dough is fermented, giving it a tangy taste and spongy texture similar to sourdough. It looks like a limp pancake.

The best thing about Ethiopian food is that you eat with your hands, tearing pieces of injera and using them to sop up the juicy sauces. Since you’re experiencing the food without utensils, the meals engage every sense — right down to the steamy sauna of sauce on your fingertips.

The most common sauce, called wot, is like a thick, yummy stew made with either meat or beans. It is seasoned with berbere, a potent blend of chili pepper, black pepper, ginger, garlic and other spices. (Supposedly the way to an Ethiopian man’s heart is through spice — it is said that the woman with the best berbere nabs the best husband!)

A less zesty version of wot is called alecha. It contains no berbere, but it is equally delicious.

During Lent and on fasting days — that is, every Wednesday and Friday — orthodox Ethiopians eschew animal products, which means vegans rule, baby! That’s when I happily order my favorite meal, beyanetu, a hearty sampler of wot, alecha, salads and more.

Many dishes are served on a shared plate, using a piece of injera that is approximately the size of a bistro tablecloth.

If you’re dining with loved ones, you might also experience gursha, a beautiful act of friendship. That’s when your buddy tears a strip of injera, sponges up some sauce, then places the bundle of food into your mouth. The larger the roll of injera, the stronger your friendship.

Altogether, Ethiopian cuisine is unbearably beautiful in its richness of flavor, the eye-popping spice, and even the act of nourishing one another. I feel like I’m getting to know this country one bite of injera at a time.

It’s a far cry from one grain of rice, huh?

Of course, the food varies by region, based on tradition, season and availability. While I was visiting a tribe near Konso, they were serving up beans and kurkofa, balls of maize and sorghum dough, boiled and served with moringa (cabbage tree) leaves.

Working girls

February 19, 2011

There was something peculiar about my flight from Bahrain to Addis Ababa.

For one, there was the sound.

Rising above the rhythmic din of the engines was a cloud of chatter — high-pitched and frantic, like 10,000 barking seals punctuated by Britney-like squees. Plastic bangles clanged like church bells on the wrists of gesturing hands. Hysterical laughter drowned out the captain’s announcements.

The cabin smelled of a perfume factory, discordant blasts of scent with oriental spice weaving between syrupy sweet and dense floral notes.

And then there was the line for the bathroom. My god. The line was as long and engorged as an underworld creature, growing in size and scope as the flight wore on.

That’s when I realized what made this flight distinctive. Women. Other than the pilot, there wasn’t a single man on board.

I approached a flight attendant in the back and asked why there were so many women on this plane.

“They are women who work,” she said, her mouth set into a prim line. “If you know what I mean by work.”

“No, I don’t think I do. What do you mean?”

She cocked her head to one side and gestured as if to say, “Really? Do you really want me to go there?”

I nodded in encouragement.

“They’re prostitutes,” she finally said.

She explained that a lot of women leave East Africa to become sex workers in the Middle East. They stay for a couple years, long enough to make money to sustain their families, then return to their homes. And that’s what I was seeing on my flight — retired prostitutes who would soon be reunited with their loved ones.

As the plane descended into Addis Ababa, joyful faces pressed against tiny windows. Jubilant shrieks of “ai-yi-yi!” filled the cabin, then most everyone broke out into a tearful rendition of the Ethiopian national anthem.

These working girls were home again.

The rocky road to Amman

February 18, 2011

Our driver to Amman was a madman.

He was a driver’s ed video of what not to do on the road, the guide for how to not act behind the wheel.

First off, he only had a passing interest in the act of driving. What he was interested in, however, was changing CDs, texting on his cell phone, leaning across seats to chat with his friends. He held a notebook on top of the steering wheel and used a blunt pencil to scrawl very important notes. He often turned around in a yoga twist, his face looking toward the back of the bus.

The road itself was treated like an unsatisfactory lover. He gave it the occasional glance, scowled with his fat, furry lip, then turned away once again.

Though the highway consisted of sheer drop-offs and blind curves, this driver was too good to stay on one side of the road. His method involved a straight line, no twists or turns necessary.

When the fog settled so low that it shrouded potholes, lanes, even other vehicles, our driver gave it all the finger. He plugged ahead at full force, never even bothering to tap the brakes. I fumbled through my bag in search of Valium.

My friend Rosie said in Arabic, “Are you the grim reaper?” The question slowed him down for a good 90 seconds, then the moment of sanity passed.

When we arrived to Amman, pulling to a stop in the gritty outskirts of town, I would have kissed the ground. That is, if the driver wasn’t already handing my bags to a cabbie.

“This my friend,” he said, yanking his thumb toward the portly man.

Here we go again.

Jordan: The real magic kingdom

February 8, 2011

My main concern was getting out of Egypt swiftly and safely. I ended up evacuating to Jordan, where I decided to make the most of an unplanned detour and scheduled a few days of sightseeing.

I never planned to fall in love with the place.

I only wish I could have stayed longer in this friendly, phenomenal kingdom. The falafel was moist, the streets were busy, the stars in the desert sky practically threw themselves down on me. And then there’s the heaving, breathing beauty of Petra, where monuments are poised to step out of the mountains.

I know Jordan is a small country, but five days wasn’t nearly enough.