In the midst of the desert and the Middle Atlas Mountains lie the towns of Ouarzazate and Ait Benhaddou – movie capitals of Morocco! Ouarzazate, historically a trading town, became a French garrison in the 1920’s. When the French left, a studio business built up there based on films set in Tibet, ancient Rome, Somalia and Egypt.

Nearby Ait Benhaddou is the real setting for these films. It’s an Almoravid caravansary from the 11th century that’s protected by UNESCO, so it looks pretty much like it did then, 1000 years ago – mud houses perched on a hill with lots of narrow streets and overlooks.

A wacky variety of movies have been made here, including:

  • Lawrence of Arabia
  • Jesus of Nazareth
  • The Jewel of the Nile
  • Gladiator
  • Game of Thrones
  • Sex and the City II

We walk around, get hot and take some pictures, but, no movie stars around today!

Adrift in Marrakech20140427-Morocco-1805

The bus gets to Marrakech mid-afternoon on Saturday. The sun is hot, but there are snow-capped mountains in the background – amazing! We can’t get to the hotel because it’s on one of the windy souk lanes, so we grab our gear, throw the suitcases into a couple of big pushcarts and start walking. The lanes are eight feet wide and mostly covered with mesh screens to cut the sun. They’re lined with shops and packed with traffic, and here we’re dodging to avoid motorcycles and bicycles, not donkeys, so the stakes are higher. After 15 minutes of rights and lefts there’s a small explosion – one of the tires of a luggage cart has blown – so a couple of us grab suitcases and the guys helping have to push much harder. And then, we get to the hotel. It seems lovely from the alley, and I have visions of a bed and a quick shower. But, alas, they’ve made a mistake with the booking and there’s no room for us. We stand, sweating, for fifteen minutes as alternate arrangements are somehow fashioned, then set off again with camera bags, backpacks, tripods and the luggage carts. Another fifteen minutes of wandering brings us to the Riad Moulay Said.
This Riad is a hoot. It’s huge, with three floors of rooms overlooking a large swimming pool. The ones on our floor, the lowest, have entryways studded with low couches and many beds. The rooms get smaller as the floors go up, with the top one seemingly a place for backpackers. The floors are nice tile, the walls are tile or painted plaster with stucco trim, and the ceilings are decorated. But the place is unfinished and dirty. In our bathroom, the toilet seat is unattached and the shower stall is covered with contact paper from the manufacturer. The lobby is dark and dirty, unvacuumed and undusted for weeks. But for the next two days, this is home. And, it’s only a ten-minute walk from The Square.

20140427-Morocco-1858The Square – Djemaa el-Fna

The name means “Assembly of the Dead” for its original use in the 11th century – public executions. Now, the hot with the direct, blinding sun of the Mediterranean, it’s packed with tourists and locals in search of carnival. At a quick glance I see snake charmers (with pythons and other sorts of live snakes,) a dentist with a card table studded with a huge pile of teeth offering extractions and replacement crowns, rows and rows of food stalls (these are set up every day and are famed to offer fresh food from the area, but I see one with snails laid out in midafternoon heat for dinner hours later,) whirling dancers, water-carriers and the usual assortment of shoe, t-shirt and hat vendors. Overlaying it all and defining the senses are drummers who beat a never-ending tattoo. I want to climb out of my skin.

There is finally some loosening of the clothing patterns here. Although most of the mothers are covered completely as in Fez and the mountains, the teen girls wear tight jeans and shirts and coordinating hijabs. According to Rashid, our guide, the practice of covering is fast losing popularity with teens in the country. So far, no Al Quada in sight!

Palace Bahia20140427-Morocco-1832

In Marrakech is a 20-acre home built 160 years ago for Morocco’s Grand Vizier (Prime Minister.) It’s lovely, large and airy, Andalusian design, with tile floors, stucco walls and decorated cedar ceilings
and windows, every room unique. Three waiting rooms for people who would come with their problems – two for Moslems decorated with Koranic verses and one for Jews decorated with motifs in the Star of David.

Most interesting were some comments from our guide, Mustafa:

  • The Grand Vizier had four wives and 24 concubines. There were over forty children.
  • The children stayed with their mothers, but played together as one family and were all treated the same no matter who their mother was
  • At five, the boys stop going to the women’s hammams (baths), and at nine they leave the mothers rooms completely and live with the other boys in a madras.
  • The girls were married at 14
  • Parties were given often in the Palace. For formal parties, women watched from their barred windows; for family parties, everyone attended. Musicians who played regularly were blinded so they could not see the women (and so they could be more focused on their music, theoretically.)
  • The French occupied the palace during their stay, adding fireplaces and chimneys which weren’t used but which were normal to them.
  • When the French came in, they banned the regular Friday public beheadings in 1912.  They also banned slavery, taking several years to accomplish because of the economic consequences. It was finally ended completely in 1920.

Sensory Whiplash

 20140419-Morocco-1188Morocco is laid out as a group of semicircles facing the ocean and the Mediterranean Sea. The coastal region, home to Tangier, Rabat and Casablanca, has a gentle, moist climate that grows fruits and vegetables for the country and for export. Back from it are the Middle Atlas Mountains, filled with Cedar forests and fertile valleys. Beyond is the High Atlas region, wrapped by the Southern Oases, then the Sahara desert to the south and west. After our first few days, we cut straight south through these diverse geographic layers.

First to the city of Fez, its medina colorful, crowded and noisy and not changed much in the millennium of its existence. Over 150,000 people live on the pathways that twist and turn with no pattern, and are so narrow that donkeys and mules are the main vehicles. Walking the alleys is sensory overload, you get lost immediately, so we just give up and relax, plan to pay a young boy to take us home at the end of the day. Each turn leads to a something different: a small souk, a street crowded with shoppers carrying loaves of bread, or a lovely square with a teashop. Sounds are varied and musical – women talking, children playing, muezzins calling, and most important to hear, the scream of “balak!” meaning that a loaded donkey is hot on your back and you have to move aside or get mowed down.

From Fez we begin a trek to the desert, through the Middle Atlas Mountains and a culture shock in the town of Ifrane. The French built it in the 1930’s to resemble an alpine village: the roads meet at right angles around parks with fountains and flowerbeds, and there are stands selling popcorn and ice cream cones. In the winter, Moroccans come to ski and play in the snow. The high point for me is a shop with cappuccinos, lovely French pastries and hi-tech bathrooms.

And then, onto the Sahara. After four more hours of driving the mountains give way to a sparse, arid flatness where we turn off-road onto rough terrain. Another hour of jarring ride leads to the edge of 20140421-Morocco-9855the Sahara, which rises suddenly in front of us. The Erg Chebbi Dunes, running for twenty miles and climbing over 800 feet, are colored from beige to red to black cut at their ridges by the lowering sun. Magnificent. The near sand is edged by camels roped in a line and dotted with tent villages and Berbers sitting by piles of trinkets.  Children racing around with shovels and four-wheel drive buggies sully the sand, but the wind is strong and these assaults are smoothed over quickly. We sit on the veranda of our hotel watching and drink hot tea, eat peanuts and feel the sand build up in our teeth, eyes and cameras. A sunset, then a sunrise of photography is followed by a long siesta then a trek into the dunes on camels for more sunset shooting.

The Gorges

From the Sahara we move west into the High Atlas Mountains. To see them close up, we have to take four-wheel-drive vehicles, past silver mines run by the royal family, complete with protestors who want a piece of the profits for some of the people outside that family, then down into the Todra Gorge. This is a steep-sided canyon with pink and gray walls up to 1000 feet, lined with palm oases along the Todra Wadi. After lunch, the vehicles circle back through the Dades Gorge, much broader with sides of dramatically eroded limestone faces and thin towers. It’s much greener along the Dades Wadi – fig, almond and walnut trees, apples orchards and corn are visible today. There’s lots of herding along the wadis and also up in the barren canyons away from the water, where there Berber dwellings scattered every few miles in the rocks – corrals for the animals made of stone with basic tents alongside for the family. It’s the most primitive living I’ve ever seen. At one of these homes, a few of us go up to take pictures. The people are very dirty, don’t want their pictures taken, but offer us tea.

Forced Leisure

 Photography is best done at dawn and sunset so any trip like this has big blocks of time with nothing to do. Some are spent on a bus driving between interesting locations, and some in dinky hotel rooms20140420-Morocco-1356 waiting for the sun to be right, the rain to stop, lunch to be served. Every guide I’ve travelled with has been good at finding events to fill this dead time – tea breaks, walks through a small town, stops at random museums and craft factories, and yet there are still hours of forced leisure. What to do with all of this time?

A quick look around the bus is illuminating. There is one “youngling” with us on the trip – a high school girl with a creative bent for photography and a travelling grandmother who brings her along. Her time is filled with her iphone – wired to its stored music and texting, clearly equipped with some plan that lets her do it, oblivious to everything else happening around her. There are some talkers. The men are always talkers, seeking each other out, opening a bag of peanuts, and jumping right into the latest move Obama has made, who has the worst property taxes, or what’s new in lenses. They’re content, fulfilled. There are some obsessive camera cleaners, blowing off dust, rearranging gear, going through today’s pictures immediately to sort the wheat from the chaff. Some people just stare out the window, thinking, I presume. I retreat to reading books, up to one a day now. It’s getting frighteningly easy – a new recommendation can be quickly scarfed up into Kindle at the next internet connection.








What’s a Berber?

I had expected a trip to Africa, but instead I could be in the Middle East somewhere.. It’s mild and damp, there are olive trees everywhere, and meals are couscous, lamb and fish. The people are light skinned. It’s not Israel – almost all of the women are in hijabs with long robes or pants, but it could be Syria or Lebanon. Not an ankle to be seen anywhere. And the people speak French, which is a plus, since I have some hope of conversing with them, my Arabic being non-existent. So Morocco, a strip that hugs the northwest coast of Africa, strikes me as more Mediterranean than African.

20140417-Morocco-0991They call themselves Berbers. The origin of these peoples is Eurasian, a mix of the forebears of the ancient Egyptians, fishermen from the Mediterranean, horsebreeders from the Sahara, and the Phoenicians. And even though the Arabs came through in the 8th century to convert everyone to Islam, they didn’t stay around long enough to become part of the gene pool.

We started off in Casablanca and spent the first day on our own in search of a sim-card. Apparently Rick and Ilsa didn’t use cell phones, because there wasn’t one in the city that would fit Jim’s iphone. The young man who attached himself to us at the restaurant we found for lunch said he would find one, but first – it was our lucky day, he’d take us to a unique exhibit at a local museum – rugs made by old women from the Atlas mountains who spent the entire year tying and dying for this one-day event. And, sophisticated as we think we are, we’re taken in: led to a rug merchant’s, then mint tea foisted into our hands and rugs unfurled one after the other in front of us. No old ladies in sight, maybe they had just hopped some camels and left.

We ended the day, phone still unfunctional and embarrassed by our gullibility, going to Rick’s Café for a drink. Yes – Rick’s – begun ten years ago by an enterprising American, it looks just like the one in the movies and there’s a guy who plays the piano. Guess what the most requested song is?

Meet me at the Casbah

The group gets together the next day.  Some old friends from earlier trips, and some new, including a trio of Venezuelans – two women and one granddaughter, outspoken about their politics and fascinating to talk with. And we’re off to Rabat.

Today Rabat is pretty pedestrian, even though it’s the capital. But its history is wild. Originally settled by the Romans, it was built by the Berbers into a “ribat,” a fortress-monastery, who added a “kasbah,” a launching point for Moorish forays into Spain in the 12th century. When the Spanish expelled the Moors and most Jews from Spain in the 15th century, some came here and settled in around the kasbah. The area still survives as the old town, or medina. The streets that were Jewish were painted in blue and white to distinguish them. For a time, the exiled Moors and Jews lived well in the same area, but that eventually fell apart.

As the refugees poured in, the city became open and ungoverned – a site for Corsairs – Christian and Moorish pirates who raided European ships.


Getting meals is part of the adventure when you’re travelling. In Meknes, an old city on the way to Fez, we visited the souk, market. You can get any part of any meat you want (as long as it’s not pork,) in any form you want. The shops that sell camel are identifiable by the hooves that lay on the counters. So, you select your favorite cut of camel, they grind it, with the spices you want (it was not immediately clear to me what goes with camel, but they seemed to know,) then walk it to a different stall where it is cooked for you and put into a “bun” (actually, really good bread.)

It was perfect with mint tea!




The South Omo

Omo ValleyWe’ve continued south in the Omo valley, down near the border of Kenya. Dirt is everywhere, so much so that it’s no longer a problem. We stop changing our clothes everyday. Dinner, often made by our drivers now that we are camping, is lentil soup, boiled vegetables, with fruit for dessert. When all of the amenities are gone, it becomes easier and much more fun.

This south Omo is home to 65 of the 83 ethnic groups of the country, most of them quite small tribal societies (ranging from ~200,000 in a tribe to ~ 2000) with little change in lifestyle for hundreds of years. They are dotted across the grassy land clustered around the Omo River, fighting for access.  Fighting between the tribes is common; the government tries to sponsor treaties, but to little use. Disputes have been augmented in recent years by an abundance of AK-47’s. They’re everywhere – whenever we camp our guide, Minalu, hires a local with an AK-47 to stay awake all night to guard us. We get a little history from him – his father was a smuggler who brought them in from Kenya on donkeys, buried in grain. Made a killing!

AK47Some are pastoralists, some are farmers, all are polygamist. The primary tender for trading or spoils of war are cattle and daughters. Dowries in the 21st century consist of cattle and AK47’s. Marking and form of dress and decoration are wildly variant from tribe to tribe. This is National Geographic country where the women wear only skirts and the men paint themselves.

The region is isolated from most contact with the rest of the country or world. There is no power, no internet, no TV or radio. Lives are recorded into five ‘ages,’ and no one knows quite how old he is in years. There is virtually no education, with only 5-10% of the children of the larger, more prosperous tribes going to school. Up to ~ 40 years ago most of the people did not know that an entity called “Ethiopia” existed. It’s changed some with the advent of tourism and the NGO’s, but the impact of the people in the tribes has been small.

There is strict division between the responsibilities of women and men, and the status of women is not good at all.  Daughters are used as trade and wives are beaten ritualistically. Disfigurement practices such as the whipping of young girls by boys in ceremonies and self-scarification of girls to enhance their appeal to boys are justified as “tradition.” The grossest by far is the Mursi; the women stretch their lips with large plates. This is an odd appearance that has been recorded often in National Geographic types photos, but mostly these women walk around with the plates out, their lips just hanging in a big loop down to their chins and below. Again, it’s a “tradition,” with many conjectures as to its origin, and no move to end the practice.

Some of the tribes we meet as we camp through the area:

The Benna   We encounter the Benna at the Key Afar market between the Dorze village and Jinka. These people are beautiful – very tall, very dark and very thin. The women wear their hair in dreads coated with butter mixed with red ochre. They have elaborate dresses of goatskins and beads. Each has three or four holes for earrings; the earrings range from beaded metals to the currently popular phone cards used by teens. But the men are more striking, with faces like models, very short skirts like loincloths, beaded armbands and ankle bands. Wow.

We get our first taste here of photography in the south Omo. Every shot is a charge, negotiated by our guide. The normal cost is 5 birr (about $.25,) which is not so bad, but the negotiation and the arguments tend to consume a lot of time. Then the people are uninterested in the process, never connect with the photographer, and so just looked bored.

The Ari  Jim’s comment “f”ing depressing.” The Ari village we visit (Kooray) seems much poorer than those of other tribes we’ve seen. Little boys are pantless, wearing only some beads. It’s an agrarian society; the only man we see is a blacksmith making scythes. The huts are made from mud sealed with dung and grass roofs. Richer Ari have tin roofs.

earringThe Mursi   We camp one night in a Mursi village (Hiloha). I’ve been dreading this – actually seeing the plate-lipped women. However, I didn’t see a single one – no one seems to wear a plate. They just walk around with their lower lips flopping down. Horrible. There is some conjecture that the practice started to keep the women from being stolen by marauders (by making them so ugly.) The young girls have huge plates in their ears. Bad enough. Many organizations are trying to help the young girls reject the lip-plates. Hope it works.

The women spend most of the day grinding corn, on their knees, rubbing it between two stones. The staple food is corn mixed with milk and cow blood. The men, when they’re feeling tough, just take blood directly from the cow’s neck.

Our campsite is hot (gets to 106 F during the day), loaded with flies, mosquitoes and other buzzers, the ground covered with shit. Everyone is friendly, people keep coming up to shake hands, but we have an AK-47 armed guard for the night.

The Hamer  Probably the most interesting of the tribes. This is a subsistence agro-pastoralist society. The women are responsible for food, farmland, producing honey and caring for the house and family. The men take care of the cattle. Dress is beautiful. The women wear their hair in short dreads covered with butter and red ochre like the Benna. They wear leather skins as skirts, lots of beads and earrings. They are sometimes topless but more often wear a cowl decorated with shells and beads, suitable for carrying a baby when appropriate. Their backs and arms are bare and covered with scars. Although the little boys are mostly naked they have on small belts hung with beaded loincloths.

HutIn the village of Wunarke we are invited into a hut for a coffee ceremony. Amazing. Our hostess sits in the center of a room ~ ten feet across and four feet high. She has three metal rings around her neck – one with a large protuberance meaning that she is a first wife. There is a baby in her cowl nursing, her four other children clustered around her and three others who have made their way in. She ladles coffee into large wooden bowls and gives us each some. Not bad – but it’s coffee so I can always drink it.

20130128-Ethiopia-1504When Hamer men are ready to be initiated into manhood they must undergo a test – they have to jump seven bulls – leap up and step on the backs of each one. This bull jumping is a whole day of celebration. It begins with hordes of young girls (maybe 13-18 years or so) dancing. They have bells on their legs and have coated their backs with butter and ochre until they’re dripping with it. During their dancing they are chased by men who whip them. With switches, leaving open wounds. To be honest, it seems it is the women who initiate this. The butter and ochre feature the wounds. It is thought by the girls that scars will make them more attractive to men (wonder how that rumor got started) and so they have been cutting themselves on the arm for years already, rubbing ash into those wounds. It also likely prepares them for being beaten by their husbands after marriage.

After the dancing and whipping, everyone retires back to the village for a couple hours of napping and coffee, then onto the bull yard. It’s getting late in the day. Ginny and I are quite interested in seeing how this ceremony progresses, but Jim and Maynard are only worried about losing their pictures if the sun goes too far down.

There are about 40 bulls. The man of the hour, our jumper, and his friends cull through them finding the ones most likely to stay still, then there is another half hour or so trying to ‘convince’ the other bulls to leave by grabbing their horns and marching them out. Bulls don’t take well to this sort of argument and there is one point where I am concerned that about ten of them are going to stampede right to where I am standing. Somehow organization is achieved, the jumper jumps, going over the bulls several times (maybe someone told him that we needed pictures!) Now he can go off and get his first wife and become a man.


toiletA point comes in every trip when I just can’t stand it any more; the dirt and heat, unfriendly people, bad plumbing, 10 hour drives over dusty eroded roads. I want to go home, to have a tablecloth, television, a good shower, and my own bed. It’s 95o F, altitude breathlessness is gone but mosquitoes have come. And…we have no internet virtually anywhere. So I apologize to everyone who is trying to follow this blog.

We’re in the south, in the Omo valley.  This is the real Africa! The north of Ethiopia, to which most tourists limit themselves, is an ancient Judeo-Christian country with ties to Israel and the old civilizations of the Mediterranean. The south is home to most of the 83 ethnic groups of the country, tribal societies with little change in lifestyle for hundreds of years.

We spent the first night here in a Dorze village. There are 38,000 Dorze in Africa. They take pride in the fact that they can live, make everything they need, if they have access to only bamboo, false banana (a plant that looks like banana but has no fruit,) and cotton.

DinnerThey use the meat of the false banana trunk to make a flat bread called kojo, similar to injera.  Their homes are the famous Elephant houses, constructed with a framework of bamboo, filled in with false banana leaves; the doorways lead somewhat out from the round building and the high windows look like the ears of an elephant. The floor space is ~ 1600 sq ft, enough room for both the family and their animals. Elephant houses are “repaired” every twenty years or so by replacing the leaves, and last 70-100 years.

Drinks  This particular village was very welcoming, first giving us Araki to drink with their kojo. This stuff really has a kick. It’s made from corn and hops that are pounded together then heated and distilled over a fire inside a hut. The alcohol, over 120 proof, is then flavored with garlic and anise, resulting in a drink that reminded me somewhat of ouzo – fire strong, clear, and anise tasting. You’re supposed to say “YoyoyoyoYO!” (cheers) then drink it all back. I was able to pour most of it in the dirt when no one was looking.

Coffee  After a quick break for a tour of their fabric making (in which the women spin and the men weave, since weaving is so Coffee Ceremonymuch more complicated) it was time for a coffee ceremony. Coffee is big in Ethiopia. Legend has that it was discovered centuries ago when a goatherd watched his goats become animated after eating the berries of a plant. He took the plant to a local monk who figured out how to roast them and the rest is history. Ethiopians make wonderful coffee – strong and not bitter, served in tiny cups. However, it was 6 PM, so I threw the coffee into the dirt on top of the Araki.


TimkatAt 4 PM a crowd of old men, some women and a bevy of small boys gathers at a church with a walled courtyard outside Hawzien in Tigray, the northern province of Ethiopia tucked in the mountains near Eritrea. It’s desert here, goats forage in the sand and birds rise and fall under intense blue sky. And it’s the drowsiest time of a hot day, when the sun and the buzzing of the insects conspire to make me want to simply go indoors, anywhere, and take a nap.

But clearly, the crowd around the church means that something is going to happen. It’s the eve of Timkat, Ethiopian Epiphany, and the people are excited. The boys circle around the few westerners, maybe ten of us, all in travel gear carrying cameras, “What is your name?” “Can I have money?” as the men and women haunch in separate groups watching the church – where nothing appears to be happening! A few minutes before 5 PM we hear drums from behind the wall, the women ululate in response and the boys’ running becomes more animated.

This continues in the same manner for a half hour or so. Festivals in Ethiopia unfold slowly, the promise of an event fighting with the boredom of nothing happening for long periods of time.  An umbrella, red, decorated with gold spangles and fringe, is sighted above the wall. The ululation increases in volume and all cameras swing in that direction. Then finally, just as the sun begins to set and the light becomes lovely, the courtyard door swings open and a procession begins.


And it’s worth the wait.  Forty young people – teens to twenties, robed in white scarves and simple vestments – parade toward us, led by two drummers who strut and gesture like drum majors. The youths sing and clap and the crowd joins in, the beat increasing a bit with each repetition.  Behind them are the priests, a snaking line of thirteen robed in mix of red, green and yellow vestments, each with umbrellas, each umbrella more magnificent than the last. And that last is truly the best. It is large and square, and it is held over what must be at least a bishop – a man with a handsome black face, a balding head, and the white beard of a prophet. He carries a large box covered with a gold cloth. We realize that this is the church’s replica of the Ark of the Covenant, the focal point of the ceremony, that will be transferred to a tent on a river a few hundred yards away, that will be guarded by the people of the village who will celebrate all night around it. Jim and Maynard run to get photos of the priests, who seem unperturbed by the attention, but who mostly just drop their umbrellas to forestall close-ups.

Not a problem, since the two groups continue to stand in that position for another 30 minutes giving our photographers plenty of time to find willing subjects and get their shots. The wait is for a similar line from another church which comes over the hill and joins our group. Then the march to the river begins, the crowd joins the official celebrants, and we walk a few hundred yards to the waiting tent.

Timkat has been celebrated in the same way at every church in Ethiopia for at least 700 years, commemorating the baptism of Christ by John the Baptist. There is always a body of water, referred to as the River Jordan during the mass held on its banks, although the water may be only a small pool constructed for the occasion. At the end of a day of celebration, the replica of the Ark is returned to its church.

Timkat is a combination of a religious aspect for a devout group of people and a chance to gather, sing and dance, and take a day off from working. Just like Christmas, just like Easter, in the West.


Laliabel_Panorama1I am weary of writing more about these buildings, because it seems to me that I shall not be believed if I write more…but I swear by God in Whose power I am, that all that is written is the truth, and there is much more than what I have written.”  Francisco Alvarez (early sixteenth century Portuguese writer.)

In the twelfth century King Lalibela of Roha was poisoned by his brother-in-law. He was taken to heaven by God where he saw a grouping of rock-hewn churches which God commanded him to recreate as a new Jerusalem in Roha. When he recovered, Lalibela did just that, excavating directly from the rock a cluster of monolithic structures.

The churches of Lalibela are set in the stunning high desert of northern Ethiopia. We visited the main eight of them in one day, climbing up to the site, then down to each church where we took off our shoes and walked around interiors that were almost one thousand years old yet still in active use, populated by Orthodox priests and pilgrims. They were all built in the three-part Orthodox arrangement. The first area is for the drummer. Drumming is central to the service: the two sides of the drum represent the old and new testament.

Jim taking pixThe drummer sways as he plays to imitate the walking of Christ carrying the cross, and inside the drum a pebble rolls back and forth as he sways, representing the casting of lots by the soldiers at the Passion. The central portion of the church is for the worshipers, and the third is the sanctuary. The frescoes, windows and paintings of each church were different, each the story of the saint for which it was named.

It was a difficult day. We were all still in the grip of jet lag, out of breath from the altitude climbing, and in pain from sore feet, Maynard, Jim and Ginny struggled to find enough light to take photos of the beautiful priests and enough distance to capture the church exteriors, often adopting creative positioning. Maynard’s patience with churches is limited at best, and he began to pine for some baskets he had seen on the drive into town. We had a challenge to keep him to the program, but he found his reward the next day as we left town to fly to Axum. He saw his basket shop and bought a beautiful multi-colored treasure for Ginny to carry for the next twenty days.