Of the gladest moments in human life, methinks is the departure upon a distant journey to unknown lands. Shaking off with one mighty effort the fetters of habit, the leaden weight of Routine, the cloak of many cares, and the Slavery of Home, man feels once more happy. The blood flows with the fast circulation of childhood….afresh dawns the morn of life… –Sir Richard Francis Burton
Ethiopia looms unique in the world, a crossroads of cultures, history, religion, and geology. Regionally, it is the birthplace of Lucy (Australopithecus afarensis). In historical texts, Ethiopia is known as Nubia or Kush and was the first empire to adopt Christianity in the 4th century. It is the most populous landlocked country on Earth. Within the context of my journey, it is also one of the most difficult places on the planet to import an overland vehicle.
When I first planned my crossing of Africa, all was stable in the region. Travelers regularly moved up and down the East Coast, easily crossing into Ethiopia, Sudan, Djibouti, and Egypt. By the summer of 2023, much of that had changed, including civil wars in Sudan and Ethiopia and general chaos throughout the Horn of Africa. As I rolled up to the Kenya–Ethiopia border, war had erupted in the Middle East. There were times I was convinced we would never make it.
Having completed my adventure through Lake Turkana, I rested for a few days, waiting for Dr. Bryon Bass to make his way east to the African continent and the remote dirt runway of Samburu. As is typical, the plane was delayed, so I played soccer with the local kids, with giraffes and elephants visible in the tree line. When landing, bush pilots buzz the runway to clear the wildlife before the final approach. In our case, it was 10 future Pelés and one huffing overlander. Bryon stepped from the plane as only a seasoned archaeologist and anthropologist would—face turned against the prop wash, his free hand gripping the wing strut as he swung out of the fuselage. I have found that most proper adventures include a dirt airstrip.
Our next leg was one of the most dangerous highways in Kenya, the A2, which runs directly to Ethiopia through contested grazing rights and religious turmoil. My contacts at the US Department of State advised extreme caution. The drive was stunning despite the risks, including 22 maar craters throughout this intensely tectonic and volcanic region. We pulled the Grenadier to the edge of the Marsabit crater and contemplated how early humans would have viewed this near-perfectly round depression caused by a phreatomagmatic eruption. Hardly a kilometer passes in Africa without a wonder to behold—or a challenge.
The challenge of the moment was getting the Ineos into Ethiopia, a country embroiled in a civil war that had closed the border to foreign vehicles. I spent a few months researching the problem and nearly abandoned the East Coast entirely until I heard about Ethio Trek. The proprietor was a well-connected Rastafarian named Muller with a knack for navigating the bureaucracy to assist the determined with accessing the country overland. While still in the US, I provided Muller with a small mountain of paperwork, scans, and forms, which he used to create a letter of invitation to the minister of tourism. The minister then creates a letter to the ambassador to Kenya, with offices in Nairobi. Once in Kenya, I needed to bring the vehicle and the original papers to the embassy for review. The process took weeks of back and forth while I spent time with friends in the city. Finally, the documents were signed, and the entire package was sent to the minister of customs to approve the vehicle’s entry into the country.
With a promise that all was in order and a modicum of faith, Bryon and I headed to the border, hoping, fingers crossed, that we would get in. As would be the theme for the rest of the journey, things got interesting. Getting checked out of Kenya was a five-minute affair, and we had more than enough time for the Ethiopia process, but the officials had curiously left well before closing time. We were stuck in no-man’s-land and trudged back to the Kenya officials. Being the beautiful souls Kenyans are, they agreed to open the gate and allow us back into the country without the paperwork to find a hotel. We only needed to promise not to leave the town.
The next day, all Ethiopian officials made themselves available in a fluid, albeit viscous, process of importing the vehicle. But even that happened without too much issue, and soon, we were making our way over a circuitous winding of overpasses to get us to the other side of the road. I had just spent a year driving a right-hand-drive vehicle on the left side of the road and was suddenly thrust into the chaos of Moyale, driving on the right and on the right—it felt all wrong.
The Omo Valley
The lower valley of the Omo River Basin, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, contains diverse cultures and languages and has very distinct prehistoric finds, particularly in southwest Ethiopia. Within this greater geographic region is the Konso Cultural Landscape, also a UNESCO World Heritage Site and home to the Konso people. Fortifying their villages for centuries with concentric stone rings that encompass strategic hilltops, the Konso make use of extensive terracing to control erosion, promote agriculture, and facilitate grazing. Their inimitable culture and the landscape they maintain are nonpareil.
One of the many puzzles of overlanding in Ethiopia was the scarcity of fuel, primarily benzine (unleaded), which I needed for the Grenadier. One would typically bring a diesel model to northern Africa, but the region uses high-sulfur fuel, often 500-2,000 ppm higher than a modern ultra-low-sulfur-diesel (ULSD) vehicle can consume. Ethiopia is landlocked and extracts almost none of its own oil (only 345 barrels per day), resulting in a 73,000-barrel-per-day deficit, all of which needs to be imported through Djibouti via train or truck. Benzine is a low priority, which leads to hours- or days-long queues at the gas stations. We entered Ethiopia with the main tank and auxiliary tanks full.
Bryon and I aimed to make it to Konso and meet up with Muller to gain access to the region’s remote villages. Our time there included a much-needed break and our first traditional Ethiopian meals of stews, injera sourdough flatbread, and tej (a honey wine-like mead). While we felt safe, the place was crawling with military patrols.
The next day, we finally met Muller and loaded into his Land Cruiser for a trip into the mountains. There are over 80 different ancestral ethnic groups in Ethiopia, many dispersed throughout the Omo Valley and Konso region. As Ethiopia was never colonized, most of these groups have maintained their unique approach to life for millennia.
One particularly unique mountain village included my being plied with local beer and, in one of my finer moments, lofting the warrior rock over my head with a thud behind me. Unfortunately, I was only instructed how to lift the rock, not how to handle my subsequent induction into the tribe and pick of the available brides who eagerly cheered me on. Exit stage left.
Dorze
Located in the highlands above Arba Minch are villages belonging to the Dorze. This traditional culture specializes in weaving, with many bright, colorful textiles contrasting sharply with the surrounding landscape and village structures. Villagers spend much time spinning yarn, with plenty of songs, dance, and homemade beer and liquor. Dorze huts, some more than 100 years old, are woven from bamboo leaves, reeds, and branches and resemble elephant heads. Interestingly, elephants no longer range there. The distinctive woven leaf panels around their villages act as privacy fencing and provide protection from the elements and wildlife.
Bryon is a joy to travel with, level-headed and competent, but he shines in situations like this, where his love of history and culture imbues him with an infectious joy and permanent grin. This was never more true than at the next village, where they manhandled him into the customary dress, which included a leopard pelt and bright yellow wool pants. I donned the same and explored the incredible huts. This visit also concluded with more beer, spirits, bread, and dance. I was bemused and humbled in the same breath, witnessing the sense of community and frivolity that came so easily to these people. Bryon captured the moments with his vintage Leica, the weathered body and dented lens an obscura of his wanderings.
Ras Tafari
Haile Selassie I (born Tafari Makonnen) governed as emperor of Ethiopia from 1930 to 1974. Prior to Selassie’s rule, a Jamaican named Marcus Garvey had predicted that when an African black king was crowned, liberation would be nigh. Viewed by some as a prophet, Selassie became known as Ras Tafari (Duke/Prince Tafari). Followers (Rastafarians) practice mixed Judeo–Christian traditions emanating from Selassie’s royal lineage. During the 1940s, to bring Ethiopian patriots and slave descendants back to their homeland, Selassie set aside about 500 acres in Shashamane, south of Addis Ababa. Although the post-1974 Ethiopian regime later confiscated most Rastafari lands, Rastafarians worldwide still revere Shashamane.
Driving through Shashamane, we turned down a broken street buzzing with motorcycles, cars, and a thriving lumber mill before stopping at a high-walled compound. We had arrived at the Ras Tafari museum, the arbiters of the Selassie legacy and formation of the Rastafari faith. Unlatching a large metal grate, Muller walked us into the lush courtyard, where we were met by one of the curators, encountering a peaceful people who view Haile Selassie as a god-king who never dies. We sat in silence as their hands fell upon animal skin and metal drums, singing the story of their Jah.
Addis Ababa
With approximately four million souls, Addis Ababa still has a small-city vibe. There are high-rises and modern buildings, but it’s not uncommon to see a herder moving goats through back alleys. Addis is not only Ethiopia’s capital but an African cultural center. A daytime café scene abounds (surely a remnant from the 1936-1941 Italian occupation), and nightlife is consistent with Addis’ prominent place in the pan-African cultural, economic, and scientific scene. Of course, some of our oldest relatives, Ardi (Ardipithecus ramidus) and Lucy (Australopithecus afarensis), are at the National Museum of Ethiopia.
Our visit to Addis Ababa included a few important errands, including dropping off medical supplies to Bryon’s childhood friend Teddy, who operates a surgical center in the city for the people of Ethiopia and surrounding countries. Teddy escaped the coup d’état of 1974 and was granted refugee status in the US, where he completed his education and earned his MD as a surgeon. After a successful career in the US, he returned to Ethiopia to provide lifesaving procedures for his fellow citizens. Our second goal was to obtain Djiboutian visas for our land crossing into the country. While an E-Visa is easy to obtain for air travel, entering by vehicle requires applying in person in Addis. While it took a few tries, we finally walked out with a newly minted stamp on our passports.
Harar
Harar’s ancient walled town, also a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is a cultural anthropologist’s dream destination. The old town, a trade route hub seeped in centuries of commerce from Africa, the Arabian Peninsula, and beyond, still bustles with activity. Harar once minted its own coins, and with more than 80 mosques, it remains sacrosanct to Islam. With such intermingled heritage, culture, and linguistics, it’s not surprising that Sir Richard Francis Burton, the unparalleled British military officer, diplomat, adventurer, and author, visited Harar. Burton donned native garb, feigned an Arab trader role, and arrived as a guest of the emir of Harar.
After a long night of traditional food and attempting to find benzine, Bryon and I started our trek to Harar before dawn. The route was known for its accidents and recent conflicts, evidenced by the intense military presence and burned-out villages. However, once we got into the mountains, things improved as we passed through small towns and drove high along the ridgelines of Mount Gugu, tracing the old caravan route between Abyssinia and the Emirate of Harar. The hillsides are full of coffee plants, one of Ethiopia’s most important exports. Coffee originated in Ethiopia, and its use has been traced back at least 1,500 years. The espresso we know today did not delight us until the late 1800s.
With darkness closing in, we completed our 10-hour trek to Harar, shutting off the Grenadier in the secure lot behind the hotel. The city was abuzz and had a safe, albeit chaotic, energy. We jumped into the first tuk-tuk and went to the Harar Brewery for food and drinks. Tourism has declined significantly since the civil war, and we were the only non-residents in the restaurant, a pattern that continued for days. The next morning, it proved to be a blessing when we meandered through the old city and its vibrant market, passing women selling everything from shoes to traditional medicines.
Despite the close confines, the Harar market exploded with life and the smell of roasting coffee beans and frankincense. Bryon and I negotiated the maze of stalls, open baskets, and teetering bags of raw spices. The spice porters announced, “Welbel, welbel,” as they vaulted 80-pound sacks over their shoulders and teetered through the chaos. We were purchasing provisions for our journey through the Afar Triangle and facing the uncertainty of the border with Djibouti at the start of Ramadan. The Horn of Africa is slowly being torn away at the tectonic confluence of the Arabian, Nubian, and Somali plates, forming the Afar Triangle and the start of the Great Rift Valley. This region is one of the planet’s hottest, lowest, and driest places. We would need to navigate this region to arrive at the Gulf of Aden, including a border crossing into Djibouti just as the war in the Middle East erupted.
With the vehicle loaded with fuel and equipment, we departed the historic Harar for the borderlands of Ethiopia, Somalia, and Djibouti. Despite this being the main route to the coast, it was nearly devoid of traffic—the fuel shortage and an impending port agreement with Somaliland flaring tensions. With the specter of the border looming, we drove slowly to conserve fuel and remain vigilant for possible rebel activity. Once we arrived at Ethiopia’s Dewele border post, the issues began. One official after another was disinterested in closing out our vehicle documentation or was unwilling to assume responsibility for our being able to leave. Hours passed, and we were given a reprieve with the changing of the guard and an official more sympathetic to our plight (and the fact that we were stuck at his border with no means of forward or return prospects). He would be the first of our patrons of kindness in the coming days.
Having cleared the Ethiopian border late in the day, we rolled up to the Djiboutian post as darkness fell. The border was a haphazard congregation of confiscated Land Cruisers, blowing trash, and decaying buildings. It seemed that everyone was yelling, jockeying for the attention of the few officials still on duty. Bags were being searched, and ramshackle buses filled with Somalis from Mogadishu poured into the dirt lot chased by a sea of dust. We found a parking spot for the Grenadier and gingerly made our way toward the outpost. Within minutes, our visas were validated, passports stamped, and vehicle carnet verified. But I sighed in relief too soon. As we were pulling away, a customs official yelled in our direction, “Show me your papers!” But that is a story for next time.
Editor’s Note: This article was originally published in Overland Journal’s Spring 2025 Issue.
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