It was my junior year. The year I fell in love with a Cape Verdean beauty…the year the ethio-eritrean issue reached its unfortunate climax…the year I was misdiagnosed with epilepsy…the year I made a game-deciding shot in the last two seconds of a ball game…the same year where I met Kofi Annan, Salim-Ahmed-Salim, Meles Zenawi…the year where sipping on Gelatopia’s (A famous café and pastry in the vogue parts of Bole) Spagetti ice cream for an extended period of time suddenly became not-so-cool…the same year I witnessed the most sophisticated form of torture when real tears oozed out of a former DERG-official as he was being stared at by a mother who lost both her daughters to his then-absolute order…the year I went on one of the most life-altering trips with all my friends through our school Hiking-Club - a never ending pilgrimage to Langano…wait *ahem*

Switching…shamelessly…mt’s…(The Road)

The driver of the bus took twice as long - swinging from one end of the road to other - since he was avoiding every ditch, twig, piece of rock…our stomachs were aching. After driving thirty minutes or so past gash Bekele Molla’s fort on lake Langano’s southern shore, we asked one native of Shashemene on a mule with red-eyes and a big AgelGil he was rummaging through - who I must say was thoroughly entertained - and the man directed us back to the non-glowing and tiny metal plate that was hanging 40-feet above the ground on the branch of an acacia tree…

Flip…mt’s…(The Tent)

Why would anyone urinate right in the middle of a tent?! Wait, their OWN tent??? WHY??? I was furious - so was everyone else. It must have been one of those Langano-dogs that give you that heartbreaking look every time you eat. But we all knew it was one of us, since the pungent smell was of …hmm… alcoholic nature - please, don’t ask.

Mixing Stations… “…yo, what’s up with this radio man…Tabia eyeQelaQele ne’wa!”…mt’s… (The most important meal of the day, indeed.)

It took fifty people a good hour to light the fire...then breakfast…pasta with tomato sauce…margarine…tuna…orange marmalade…salt…black pepper…even Vimto…mt’s

CLICK…mt’s…for the breakfast, again…(Romance)

On that clear, well-lit, and star-infested night…sitting on the sand…his arms wrapped around her back…meticulously observing the beauty in the vast infinity…their presence complemented by the warm and healing lake-breeze…staring at the charismatic full moon, that is staring right back at them - in delight. Then suddenly the girl turned back, pulled out a joint tucked in her cleavage, took a couple of hits and gave him a shotgun - slowly…a distinct smirk on both their faces minutes later…[the cinematographer choosing to narrate the story by zooming on the resplendent moon]

CLICK…mt’s…(Extremes)

Two of my friends dared each other into playing a game where they were suppose to fetch a floating object thrown as far away into the lake as possible by one of us…the lake was really freezing and one is not suppose to swim that far out at that time of the night either…but hey, they WERE good swimmers…

CLICK…mt’s…(Globalization)

The waiter sprayed the fresh scent of tella across our table…we could literally smell the ingredients; but we didn’t mind at all, we fueled our trip with cheap tequila and the infamous ye Kosso-Areqe that takes you places you have never been before - shame…

Our friend ordered Mango Juice and our waiter, Dadhi - with that silly I-Have-Modern-Juice-For-You-Modern-Rich-Folk-Taste smirk - brought a small, embellished bottle that had the trademark written in Arabic…from Dubai…wait, wait…aren’t we amidst the GREAT rift valley…a few miles from Wondo Genet, where people throw out papayas and avocados in bulks and weed-be-goniFY mangoes on occasions…God save us…

CLICK…mt’s…(Vanity)

A bunch of us hiked a couple of miles to the top of a hill nearby to paint our names on a large piece of rock by the summit…our friend stole the paint from their guard’s room…imported for a specific purpose by his father…glossy-black…we were all pretty satisfied...

CLICK…mt’s…(Unusual Patterns)

The warm feeling of the campfire has been hypnotizing each of us for over an hour now. We have assumed awkward but comfortable positions…some sitting on abandoned tree trunks others on branches, some leaning on tents, some sleeping next to the fire, some on their inflatable beds…staring up at the sky - its incomprehensible beauty.

Then a friend started talking about how the stars have endless patterns that can mold into anything the eye wishes…silence reined for another half an hour. Personally, I only saw bent parabolas and other geometrical shapes built with distant sparkling stars…Helen graciously standing with the whole Trojan army behind her, a DERG dehNinett-officer holding a klashinkov to a woman’s head while the kebele officers for the night forced a confession out of her by immersing her foot in hot oil, the time when an emotional audience at the National Theatre booed the ingenious portrayal of Iago by gash Wogayehu Nigatu, three naked children diving into lake hora from a tree that extends into the lake while a tourist couple took pictures from gash Al-Amoudi’s brand-new fort - Hora-Ras Hotel, one of our infamous friends being spanked on his behind by a notorious instructor, kidus Yared curiously staring at the persistent spider - the one that snapped him out of his laid-back and lazy childhood, according to the legend anyway - trying to climb up a tree using its weak web while he was enjoying the fresh countryside scenery, that historical smile by Him Imperial Majesty after shooting an Italian fighter plane down in the height of the war for independence, two old men with dusty netellas tucked around their necks playing gebeTa on the ground…they went on for hours…and everyone described each scene carefully and down to the last detail - we all listened and stared at the sky clueless…I was dazed the entire time.

CLICK…mt’s…(Near-fatal Interruptions)

I will surely NEVER forget to pack and bring a lighter to any camping trip…never.

My friend and I volunteered to go back to the bar to ask for some lighters for the campfire. Instead we decided to interrupt a frustrated Swedish couple on a stress relieving ritual…inside a tiny tent…their shadows being projected on one of the walls…clearly.

…moaning…more moaning…”Excuse us sir…*ahem…louder* siiirrrrrr”…long pause…then suddenly faint sounds of a gun being cocked…”Piss off you little horny bastards! I said piss the fuck off!”…a sudden chill run down my spine.

…all I remember is running for my life - fast…we fell down hard a couple of times.

Exiting…one loud and sharp mt’s followed by and endless sigh of relief…(forgive me).