Today was every kind of strange and beautiful, simultaneously. I met many new people, saw breathtaking views, felt new textures beneath my bare feet, and tasted the salt of the Earth. Among my new acquaintances, I count a Korean, a Japanese man, a Netherlands man, an Australian, a French man, a Canadian, some Polish girls, and several Ethiopian tour guides. The Danakil tour is international, beautiful, and fascinating. As I watched the well-travelled French man interact perhaps a bit too boldly with some Afar children, I contemplated the effect this tour has on local children. They are regularly introduced to every culture this world has to offer without ever leaving their stick-hut village. To live such a life, with a deflated soccer ball, constantly passed-by by the strange people with flashing Canons… such a thing must be beyond confusing. It felt much easier to deny the cry for “things” when it came from my neighbors of two years. But is it really different now? Was I ever right in doing so, or was I just denying my materialistic lust for a first-world?
These questions run deep through my intestines, longing to be digested and lost at last. That is the curse of my two years in Ghana.
As for the other aspects of today, I am blessed to claim them as my own experiences. Today, we drove through the most beautiful desertous mountains for a few hours. I was lost in wonder. Finally, we came to a village where we ate lunch. The kids swarmed and brought flashbacks of Ghana in my heart. Soon we departed for Hamedela, where the Afar people live near the border of Eritrea. Here, we rested in the heat of the scorching sun for an hour. While many complained, I remained silent: used to the heat from my previous home. Finally, our driver Barhac, who had gone back for a broken-down car, arrived at Hamedela. We left in our car-caravan for the salt lake.
The ground that rolled by under our wheels was ever-changing: from mud; to volcanic rock; to crystallized mud geometry; to a dusting; to a coating; to splashing. Finally, we stopped. As we got out, we were instructed to put on flip-flops. The white-coated ground beckoned. A tour guide told me to remove my shoes. Barefoot, I felt the sharp fractals of crystal under me: pure salt: the salt of the Earth. It was covered in a layer of warm water: water leading to the Red Sea. We stood on Lake Assal.
We had passed a large pipe on our way out. Aki, our tour guide, told me that it was new as of 5-6 months ago. It’s construction is somehow sad, as it may eventually do away with the came caravan culture of this people group. They make a 7 day trek, on foot with camels, into the hottest place on Earth to mine salt in Lake Assal. In a few years, this may no longer happen. While sad, perhaps the pipe will draw enough 45% salt water to increase Ethiopia’s salt exports and boost their economy. The project has been funded through the taxes of supporting Ethiopians, so I hope it helps them in the end.
As the awe dissipated, our guides brought out the white (amber) Ethiopian wine and Ouza. As a large group of 20, we sat, drank, talked, felt the warm salt-water between our toes, and watched the sun set. Now we lay on grass-weaved cots beneath the stars. And I count my blessings, then stop… because there are too many.
Simply Ghana Live 