The Lalibela Boys

Our room at the Seven Olives hotel in Lalibela. It was fine
for $35.70 per night, despite no hot water, no water at all most
of the time, a whole new load of flea bites ... ummmm ...
it was well located? 

On the way down the mountain from our donkey trek, Robin had slipped on the loose gavel that overlaid the solid stone for which the town was birthed and wrenched her knee. It wasn’t too serious—she was able to get up and finish walking down the mountain with a limp—but she definitely needed to take it easy. After Ethiopia, Robin was meeting her sister in Kenya and continuing for another 3 weeks into Rwanda and Uganda and a bum knee would absolutely compromise her holiday. When we got back to our hotel, Robin propped up her leg (ice isn’t really an option in Ethiopia and out of the question in rural Lalibela) and settled in for the remainder of the day; our plan to hit the Lalibela merkado together had to be forfeit, which meant I had two choices: relax after a long day on a donkey trek or continue the Lalibela adventure solo.

     With Robin’s blessing (and wishes of good luck), I was back out the door, off to the merkado as a single, blond-haired, blued-eyed, freckled ferenji tourist—about as white as white could get in a sea of striking dark skin. This was feat necessarily prefaced by deep breaths, a positive attitude, and heaps of common sense. Generally speaking, stepping out the door into Ethiopia could be exhausting as a Westerner: constant calls of “Hall-o!,” “Where you from?,” and “Sis-tah!” had to be acknowledged so not to appear rude; children waved or wanted handshakes if not money; beggars begged; women stared; merchants shoved their goods in our faces … and those were just some of the human interfaces. One needed to remain alert to avoid rogue buses; plumes of exhaust; random holes; puddles of questionable fluids; donkeys; goats; and cows. I wouldn’t say I’ve ever felt un-safe in Ethiopia; it’s just frenzied and hectic and jam-packed. I’ve never really just “strolled” … it’s always sort of a low-key combat mode from the moment I step out the door.

     As I approached the hotel exit gate, beyond which locals were not allowed to tread, I braced myself. There were shops right across the street and I’d already blown it by making eye contact in brief consideration of an Ethiopian-colored Rasta hat that I thought Richie Velasquez had to have; there is no peace if one shows any interest at all in a vendor’s merchandise. Sure enough, two steps out the gate, I was absconded by the young entrepreneurs: “Miss! Miss! Hat! Remember? Hat!”

     “Yes, I know,” I sighed. “I have no money.” It was true. Robin and I made the mistake of not bringing enough cash with us; we’d been given the impression that the hotel would provide a shuttle from the airport at no charge (nope, 70 birr each); that breakfast was included (nope); and we assumed that we could charge the hotel expense to a credit card to conserve our cash (nope). On top of those incommodes, there is no ATM in Lalibela (we were told that a private bank that would include Lalibela’s first ATM was scheduled to open in 2 weeks; we allowed ourselves the joke of wondering if that was 2 weeks from now in Western time, which would be early June, or 8 years and 2 weeks from now on the Ethiopian calendar). We pooled our birr; thankfully I’d brought a hundred dollars U.S., which I sold at the ATM-barren bank for 1,570-odd birr; we set aside enough for the hotel (US$42 per night less a 15% discount because we pulled the “volunteer” card), enough to get back to the airport, and the remainder for food. Even our guide Teddy had granted us the extraordinary trust of depositing the 900 birr we owed for his services into his personal bank account when we returned to Addis Ababa (a feat that required my grandfather’s surname).

     “Good price!” the boys pleaded. “Discount!”

     The truth was, I didn’t want these guys wasting their time, let alone mine. I stopped and faced them head on: “Seriously,” I said kindly but firmly, “I’m out of cash. No ATM. No hat. I’m sorry.”

     There was a pause in the routine: typically my disinterest would be regarded as a bargaining ploy and the bantering would resume. My face or my tone must have ended the game prematurely and no one knew what the next move was. I waited.

     “Okay,” one guy said clearly. “No problem.”

     Wow. Cool. “Thank you,” I said sincerely.

     “Where are you going?” he continued in very clear English.

     “To the merkado,” I said honestly. “But not to buy anything! I just want to check it out.”

     “Okay. We’ll take you,” he replied.

     Here we go again, I thought. Typical tourist ploy … a guy or some “kindly” kids offer to show you around or give you directions and once you get there, you suddenly owe them for their services; it happened to Robin and I more than once despite our best efforts to believe people’s good intentions and I wasn’t going to put myself in that position again: “Uh, no, thanks,” I laughed. “I know this game. I told you … I have NO money. Thanks.” I headed off victoriously.

     “The merkado is this way!” he yelled after me.

     I stopped. I turned back to look at him with as much suspicion in my face as I could muster. In truth, I was just guessing on the direction based on the view I’d had from the top of the mountain that morning. “I don’t believe you,” I said with a devious grin. He was grinning, too.

     “Really,” he said sincerely. “It’s down this road.” He pointed in a direction 90° off the route I’d taken. “We’ll take you,” he said sympathetically. “You won’t owe us anything. We want to speak English.”

     I stood my ground for another moment, prolonging my suspicious eyeballing for affect: four kids, two in their late teens or early twenties, the other two mid-teens.

     “It’s no problem,” he said entreatingly, patiently waiting me out.

     “Alright,” I acquiesced. “But seriously … no money.”

     The mood immediately lightened and we were off. Questions started flying: “Where are you from?” “What is your name?” “Do you think Obama will get re-elected?” “Do you have a family?” “What do you think of Ethiopia?” The oldest kid, whose name I learned to be Desale (“It means ‘happy’), spoke very good English; he seemed a little flirtatious, offering me his hand when we climbed down rocky precipices on the “shortcut” they knew and leaning into my ear to tender commentary on various comments the other boys made. The other young man about his age (Abuye) was mostly quiet and more difficult to understand. Of the two young ones in our merry band, one hardly said a word at all, while the other, Malkamu, was all personality and brains: “Ask him the capital of any European country,” they challenged. I did … and, honestly, before I could even finish annunciating the country, he broadcast the capital in perfect English. When I stammered to come up with more countries, he offered the ones I’d forgotten: “Lichtenstein, Vaduz. Ukraine, Kiev.” I was impressed.

Lalibela merkado in action.

     In no time, we approached the merkado, a vast pool of people and livestock buzzing with haggling, patch-worked with colors and scents of fresh produce. My stomach fluttered with excitement; it reminded me of my grandfather’s livestock market when I was younger and wandering around all the animals and strangers and sounds and smells. I dove in but the oldest of the clan grabbed my arm and shot me a look that stopped me in my tracks; I didn’t know what he needed except for me—the white woman—to wait. I obliged. He turned a sharp right-turn and stepped carefully between squatted humans nesting among piles of dried beans or flour. I followed his path to an armed policeman—or some sort of official—who was making his way toward Desale with a more deliberate gate, less mindful of vendors in his way. I wasn’t sure what was going on but my enthusiasm to see the merkado was not worth getting these kids in trouble; I looked around and noted that the two youngest boys had vanished. I waited and after a few moments of conversation with the officer, Desante returned. He gently took my elbow and led me deeper into the throngs.

     “What was that,” I asked without turning to him; we suddenly shared some serious bond that I didn’t even understand.

     “I had to tell him that I am not a guide,” he said quietly. “I am just showing you your way.” I remembered immediately that Teddy, when he took us through all the churches and up the mountain to the monastery, donned a badge and a blue vest during our “official” time together and had told of  “guide testing” and a 3-year training program for official Lalibela chaperones.

     “Are you not allowed to be with ferenjis at all if you’re not a guide?” I asked, a little perplexed.

     “We are not allowed to be paid to escort tourists,” he explained, eyes still fixed ahead to distance us from the official. “I told him I was only helping you,” he said, seeming to want an end to the conversation. That was true enough—or at least I still wanted to believe it to be—but the enforcement of an armed, uniformed officer on the subject of tourists was a little intimidating. I tried to reason it out quickly in my head—the idea that a tourist-based economy didn’t need a reputation of con artists and hoodlums undermining its good name. I realized that the other boys had stealthily rejoined us; we drifted deeper into the bedlam of the market.

     I walked gingerly among the vendors, careful not to step on their wares, trying to take in the new sights while keeping my bearings in the melee and responding to the array of calls; the younger boys seemed anxious for my attention and to whisk me to see everything all at once, while the older boys more patiently described the different colored beans and grains that caught my eye, trying to predict my interests and lead me to other areas. My head was switching back-and-forth in effort to accommodate all of their well-meaning demands. “Stop,” I said calmly, planting my feet where I stood. I needed to reclaim some control: “Are there donkeys for sale?” I asked.

     “Yes,” they said in unison.

CUTEST BABY MULE EVER. And only 450 birr ($25.59).

     “I want to see the donkeys,” I commanded. “Please.” I smiled. They returned the smile and again I was pulled and pushed through the masses toward the livestock area, all the while asking questions while pointing to wares foreign to me. We arrived at a massive herd of short, stocky donkeys—mules, really—and I dove in among the herd, happily petting manes, patting backsides, and scratching ears. The boys seemed alarmed at my level of comfort but soon began showing me the “best” mules and treating me to the youngest ones that I squatted down to cuddle despite them pulling against their leads in protest.

     The mule section abutted a row of low mud buildings that I hardly noticed until Malkamu, the smart boy with the toothy grin, pointed toward an obscure entryway, through which I peered from a distance; it seemed to be a public area, perhaps a restaurant of sorts. “Tej,” he said. “A local drink. You want to try?”

     What I knew of tej—which I don’t actually know how to spell—I’d learned from Robin, who’d imbibed one night when out with her “stalker” friend Tewodros … some kind of a honey-based beer that she described as “lovely” but warned made her feel “high” in a way that was different from “intoxicated.” I seldom drank at home; I certainly wasn’t going to lose control here, right now. “No, thanks,” I responded with a polite grin. My “stay alert” radar went up again: The kid can’t be 13 years old, I reasoned in my head. He can’t be trying to knock me off balance.

     “I’d like to see the chickens, please,” I told him in a diversionary tactic. He and the others eagerly obliged and we were off again.

Honey vendor at merkado.

     As we meandered through the crowd, I asked as many questions of them as of the market. The two older boys were about 20. Desante had completed “nursing school,” something I’d heard from others in Ethiopia but still didn’t entirely understand in terms of what I knew of “nursing” from a Western perspective.  The younger boys were 15 years old and from the “countryside,” as were many of the merchants and customers of the market that day; I’d learned that people walked for many miles, even overnight, to attend the Saturday Lalibela market, a sojourn I’d witnessed that morning trekking up the mountain as the highland villagers trekked down with their goods. The younger boys told me with no ceremony that their families had sent them to Lalibela to attend school and that this was not uncommon; the older boys confirmed that the boys lived on their own during the school year, paying a nominal tuition and working daily shining shoes and doing odd jobs to pay for their housing and food.

     “How did you learn about the school?” I asked, intrigued. Clearly, the kids had some education … the Malkamu was smart as a whip and spoke English as well as or better than most Ethiopians I’d come in contact with.

     “People who went to university told us,” he explained. “They are from our village and they come back to talk to our families about going to school.”

     I don’t recall how much the boys filled in versus how much my own mind connected the dots, but it appeared that Lalibela, being the largest and certainly wealthiest community in a who-knows-how-many-mile radius, had evolved enough to place a value on education—as was evidenced in our guide Teddy’s knowledge and sincerity, I noted. It didn’t surprise me to learn that if there were parents from the countryside who had been convinced of the merits of their child being educated, that they would absolutely sacrifice having their child (and the associated expense) at home 10 months of the year in exchange for schooling.

Chickens for sale.

     My interest in the market waned as my fascination in these kids’ lives became more highly charged. We wandered mindlessly through the cows, sheep, goats, the chickens I requested, fruits, and honey as I banged out one question after another to find the pieces I needed to puzzle together an understanding of their lives.

     “Where are your parents?” I asked directly.

     “In the countryside,” Malkamu answered plainly.

     “So you live alone,” I stated as fact rather than asked.

     “We share a room,” he said, pointing to his mute friend.

     “How long have you lived here for schooling?”

     “We are in our sixth year.”

     “And how do you feed yourselves?”

     “They go to school in the morning,” the Desante interjected, perhaps becoming impatient with the kids usurping all of my attention. “In the afternoon they must work to earn money, cleaning shoes or carrying materials as laborers,” he explained. “But it is the slow season, so work is harder to find right now,” he said matter-of-factly. I remembered the hat that I wasn’t going to buy from Desante. We worked our way out of the market and absently headed back up the dusty road.

     “Maybe you can come see my house,” Malkamu suggested eagerly. I’d wanted to see inside a home from the moment I arrived in the country.

     “Maybe,” I said cautiously, radar up but careful not to disappoint or offend. We walked past a school and a public library as the boys told me that Western people sponsored some students but that he and his friend had not found a sponsor.

     Here we go, I thought cynically. But no more came of it and we continued up the steep road, cutting back again through the short cut, which required teamwork by the pulling of hands up rocky crags. I was hot and sweaty, trying to continue my questioning through heavy breathing. I roughly knew my whereabouts—we were approaching the Commercial Bank of Ethiopia on the main road—when we wound through a neighborhood of traditional, round mud homes and came upon a forlorn ping-pong table; a goat moved out of the way when the Desante headed to pick up a paddle from the tabletop:

     “Do you play?” he asked me. I had the sense that he wanted my attention from the kids as much as a match of table tennis.

     “Not well,” I said, smirking as I picked up the other paddle, uncertain of how a ping-pong ball would materialize. But indeed it did and before I knew it I was tunnel-visioned on the “plink-plink” sound of the ball hitting the table and the paddles—even my paddle—as we volleyed back and forth.

     “You are good,” he said, focused.

     “I am not,” I replied, mimicking his chopping accent, eyes fixed on the ball. All-in-all, we were equally bad, but I offered a good showing for a white chick from America and a small crowd gathered. I noted that the quiet older boy had disappeared again and inquired as to his location.

     “Restroom,” my opponent replied, attentive to his game. “Let’s stop,” he said abruptly; I noted a slight pleading in his tone and decided it wasn’t cool at all for a tourist—a female tourist, nonetheless—to be keeping his ping-pong prowess at bay in his own neighborhood. I conceded but before we could move onward toward my hotel, the capital-city whiz kid wanted a shot at me on the court. I picked up the paddle again and we went at it for a few minutes until Desante impatiently called it and we resumed our walk.

     In a few minutes we were at the entrance of my motel gate.

     “Will you come see my house?” the Malkamu asked one last time. I was energized from our ping-pong fun and felt cooler and rested for the pause up the hill.

     “Okay,” I said benignly, “if it’s not far.”

     “No!” he replied, surprised and pulling my arm before I changed my mind. We began walking down a lane directly across from my hotel gate.

     I wonder if I’m an idiot, I thought as we happily walked along. I wonder if I’ll disappear and Joel Brust will be really pissed at my stupidity. But they’re kids, I reasoned. But there’s four of them and one of me. I kept walking, trying to remain cool but conscious of my surroundings.

     As we rounded a corner and I asked cautiously: “Is it close?”

     “Yes! Here!” the younger boys said, pointing to a small, round hut in the traditional style with mud walls and a thatched roof. They ducked through the door and offered for me to come inside. I ducked down and stepped into the dark grotto, the two older boys behind me.

Desale, Abuye, and Malkamu outside the younger kids' home in Lalibela. 

     Wow, I thought. I really am an idiot in the name of kindness and Joel would definitely not be pleased with me right now. The kids sat on a mattress that rested on the dirt floor that I assumed was the bed they shared. There was little space for anything else in the single room: a small fire ring sat near the door and a log across from the mattress served as a bench on which the older boys sat. A goatskin lay at the head of the bed and I was invited to sit on it. The mute boy of the younger pair rummaged through a cardboard box that perhaps served as their “dresser” and pulled out a sweatshirt, which, in motherly fashion, he handed to Malkamu, who slipped it on over his gray T shirt. We sat in silence for a bit. “It’s very nice,” I offered helplessly. “Do you cook here?” I asked, pointing to the fire ring as if it were a new gas stove about which I was politely and complimentarily inquiring of a new homeowner.

     “When we have food,” Malkamu responded.

     Blah. Now what. “Do you have to pay to stay here?” I floundered.

     “Yes, 150 birr each month,” he replied. “It is due in two days,” he said quickly.

     “It is the slow season,” the Desante offered in an apologetic tone, seeming a little embarrassed or annoyed that the younger boys might be fishing for a hand-out. I didn’t say anything but looked around for something else to compliment.

     “May I take a picture?” I asked. I was trying hard to not appear judgmental or shocked in any way and hoped that they might see my interest as a compliment.

     “Yes,” the toothy Malkamu said simply, waving his hand out to offer the breadth of the place for photography.

Malkamu and Abuye inside their home.

     “I mean with you guys,” I explained hopefully, trying to make my request light and fun. We rearranged ourselves in such a way that the kids sat on their bed and I sat across from them and snapped a couple shots with my phone.

     “Let us see,” they asked anxiously, as was common. We crowded around my phone on the log-seat and snickered at the results. I flipped back too far and revealed a snap of the students in Asko, which led to a conversation about what I was doing in Ethiopia. That, in turn, led to the other photos on my phone from America and my dog Charlie and friends and my house. It wasn’t awkward; I didn’t feel “rich” or like I was boasting; I answered their questions plainly and without expanding. I tried to explain a photo of Neal skateboarding; I did my best to describe snow; I helped them make sense of Charlie in the bathtub with the Velasquez twins; I let them laugh at my photo with Jan Freed’s horse (I couldn’t decipher why that was funny). We hung out for a half hour or more, laughing at my pictures, laughing at pictures of them … we had fun and it all felt innocent and authentic and I relaxed and let Joel’s spectral cautions drift from my mind.

     When there was finally a lull in our frivolity, I made the move to leave as one would late in the evening after dinner and coffee at a friend’s house. The boys respectfully showed me out door. I thanked them for inviting me to their home.

     The capital-city phenom made one last plea: “Maybe you can help with our rent.”

     “Hmmmmm,” I said, feigning a scowl. The older boys turned away, seeming to not want to be involved. “How much is it again?” I asked, knowing perfectly well that it was 150 birr a month—“due in tow days”—but I wanted to buy a little think-time. Robin entrusted me with the remaining cash we had for food and “just in case”—I carried maybe 600 birr, which I certainly couldn’t tally in front of them, for another full day until we could get back to Addis Ababa. “I really don’t have much money left,” I said again. Argh! Why did I say that … what a stupid thing to say to two teenage kids who live in a mud hut without their parents and clean shoes so they can stay in school. “I mean, all I have left is for food until we go home. Oh my God, Debra, shut up already … at least you HAVE food when you go home. AT LEAST YOU CAN GO HOME!! “Where’s your landlord.”

     There was a scurry of activity and some yelling down the lane, which produced a young man, probably in his mid to late 20s. I reached out to shake his hand and introduce myself but he just stared at me, seeming unable to utter a greeting even in Ahmaric. “This is our manager’s son,” Malkamu said anxiously, hoping this would suffice in my consideration of contributing to their rent.

     “Is this true?” I asked the man. “Does your father own this house?” I pointed to the mud hut to my right. He looked confused and the flirtatious Desante interjected in Ahmaric from somewhere behind me, which elicited a head nodding at me from the man. “And their rent is 150 birr per month?” I asked. Again, he nodded in agreement. “Alright, guys,” I said, ripping open the Velcro on my travel pack, “I’m being serious about being low on cash; I can only give him one hundred birr.” I handed the man the 100-birr note, which he folded into his hand, acknowledging the contribution with another nod in seeming understanding of what just went on. I felt like I was giving Robin’s money away as much as mine, but figured I would skip a meal if it came to that so not to burden her with my weak moment. The boys seemed sincerely grateful and relieved and escorted me back out to the main road, asking for my email address and encouraging further communication with their school director, whose email address they gave me and the older boys confirmed to be accurate. We walked to the hotel gate and said our good-byes, the kids thanking me and wishing me well, the older boys seeming a little dejected or defeated, having neither received a contribution toward their own situation nor selling me an Ethiopian-flag colored Rasta hat.

     I went back to the room to check on Robin. “You were gone a long time!” Robin exclaimed.

     “Was I?” I asked sincerely. It hadn’t seemed like a long time.

     “How as it?” she asked.

     “It was a small market compared to Addis,” I said. “Mostly household goods and food stuffs. You didn’t miss anything,” I assured her and moved the conversation to how her knee was doing.

The next morning, Teddy met me at our hotel at 7:30 a.m.; he’d promised to take me to church with him to watch the laying of the golden cross—recovered several decades ago from an antique dealer who had stolen and sold it to an overseas investor. When we returned from the ceremony—which had begun several hours before our arrival in the dark of the morning and would continue on for several hours after I’d had my fill—I invited him to the hotel terrace for coffee as Robin and I awaited our shuttle to depart for the airport. I was hoping to engage him in some of the photos I’d taken on our first day to clarify for me which church was which. He unenthusiastically obliged and we sat on a cushioned bench just outside the restaurant. I opened my computer, which booted up to display the photos I’d downloaded the previous evening from my merkado adventure.

     “When was this,” Teddy asked.

     “After our donkey trek,” I explained. “I went to the merkado while Robin rested; these kids showed me around.”

     Teddy looked hard at the photo.

     “Do you know them?” I asked, curious as to the long stare.

     “I know this one,” he said, pointing to the smart, grinning Malkamu who knew all the European capitals,  including the ones for countries I barely recognized. “He is a con artist. Do not give him money. Do not give him your email address,” Teddy warned. “He is a scammer.”

     “He was very respectful,” I retorted in the kid’s defense, marking my own defensiveness. “He is very intelligent,” I offered more smoothly.

     “Yes,” Teddy agreed. “Scammers must be very smart.”

     I stared at the photo with Teddy. “I do not know the others,” he offered.

     Those stinkers, I thought. HOOK, LINE, AND SINKER!!! I could feel my cheeks burning in embarrassment, even though I was the only one who knew I’d been swindled. Those little hustlers. Hahaha! They got me!

     Teddy rattled off the names of the churches for my benefit; I tried to act engaged and grateful but I was preoccupied processing the stories and the events from the day before as they had unfolded, wondering if all the boys were in on it and who was that “landlord’s son?!” and did they really even live there? Not like there’s a vinyl-sided house with a Jacuzzi on the hill so they probably did live there but did they even go to school!? I went back through every detail in my mind the way one reviews the plot of a movie to reveal the overlooked clues after being taken off-guard by the surprise ending.

     They were good. Really good.

     A hundred birr. They got a hundred birr out of me, I thought.

     While Teddy dutifully recited the names of the churches, I pulled out my iPhone conversion app to decipher the value of 100 birr in dollars: $5.69.

     Totally worth it.