Debre Birhan

En route to Lalibela from Addis Abeba, Hassan and I stopped in the languid mountain town of Debre Birhan. It was quite a relief from Addis, particularly in terms of hassle. The children failed to agglutinate into faranji-screaming swarms; beggars didn't cross the street to importune me; prices didn't skyrocket the moment I set foot in a cafe. But there's always something; in this case it was my stomach.

I'd spent the better part of the week contending with an alien life form gurgling away in my belly. It was in Debre Birhan--'Mountain of Light'--that it completed its infiltration of planet Earth. I woke up on the morning of the 3rd to an angry rumbling that I promptly ignored. Hassan and I went to the City Top Cafe where I ordered a macchiato. As they were steaming the milk, I couldn't tell whether the swooshing sound was coming from the kitchen or my gut. By my third sip, I knew it to be the latter. Coffee, milk, and sugar--was I trying to defy the gods?

Within seconds, I became aware of an angry mob crowding around the one physiological exit. It was perhaps one kilometer to the hotel. With veins sprouting from my forehead and a sheet of sweat oozing from my pores, I stood up and declared, "Gotta go." Hassan looked up from his Sudanese breakfast a bit baffled; before he could inquire, I was gone.

I proceeded to walk the longest kilometer of my life. It was a masterpiece of adaptation. Because I knew that any release of pressure meant failure and humiliation, I kept my buttocks firmly clenched. This, however, was not conducive to forward movement. The only real option was to pivot on one foot, swing to the other, and then repeat. In this way, I made my way to the hotel swinging like a revolving door.

I also adopted the adage of "When in Ethiopia, do as the Ethiopians do." Because the country and its people attribute everything, whether victory or failure, to the whims of God, I abandoned the fate of my mission to the monarch of the skies. Not, of course, without what must surely be one of the strangest prayers on record:

"Dear Mighty God, maker of Heaven and Earth, please grant this unworthy sinner the sphincter control required to reach the Akalu Hotel without releasing a riotous torrent of shit. Thou art great; please use thine omnipotence to stymie the flow of fetid sewage from the buttocks of your humble subject. And if thou Lord-all-powerful see fit for this miserable wretch to spill his bowels in public and thereby ensure his everlasting shame, please locate the site of ignominy somewhere inconspicuous, like an abandoned alleyway, or perhaps a deep ditch with limited visibility from the horizon."

As God would have it, I was destined to reach my hotel room door where I frantically stabbed the keyhole. I quaked on the commode for the better part of the day. Two factors conspired to enhance the humor: for one, the toilet seat was mysteriously unattached to the toilet bowl. Secondly, the toilet, as is the case in most hotel bathrooms in Ethiopia, was right next to a curtain-less shower. I had taken a shower earlier that morning; the effect was not unlike a really disgusting Chucky Cheese challenge, a kind of slip n' slide propelled by explosive diarrhea.

We didn't make it Debre Sina as intended. In fact, we were moored in Debre Birhan, or at least that's where I dropped anchor. The matronly owner of the Akalu Hotel boiled me some potatoes, Hassan dashed about cornering the town's supply of toilet paper, and I bounced through an eight hour series of contractions. After a dose of Cipro and Immodium, Hassan and I walked around the plains south of town. A full moon rose between mountain peaks while pink ribbons of light streamed out of the west. And thus a morning of fear and trembling gave way to a night of peace and sleep--well, peaceful but for the troop of fleas I picked up.