The only way we knew we had finally arrived in Ethiopia was when we saw a building flying a strange flag, which was NOT the Kenyan flag! It felt good to be in Ethiopia at last. We reported at the building, expecting it to be the expected police post, but discovered that it was a clinic. As planned, we had entered Ethiopia via the “severe” route from Lake Turkana, where there is no official border post. We had already had our papers stamped in Nairobi by the Kenya customs and immigration authorities.

That day it had been a long, tough drive along a tiny, washed out track and we knew we would not reach any village before sunset, so when it started getting dark, we chose a suitable spot to bush-camp for the night, a discreet distance from the road (or more accurately, track). We had hoped to request to camp at a fish farm near the border, but had not been able to see anything resembling a fish farm – or anything else for that matter – along the track, so “bush” it would have to be. I had barely finished opening the roof tent and putting out the table and chairs when I noticed a traditionally dressed (or should I say undressed?) youth emerge from the shrubbery, sporting the unmistakable silhouette of a Kalashnikov (AK47) automatic rifle. I put on my best smile, counted silently to four (there wasn't time to count to ten!) to compose myself, and had hardly finished greeting him, when another youth similarly armed appeared ... and another ... eventually making a total of six. The first youth undid a huge belt of bullets from his waist and, in what I felt was a carefully orchestrated move, dumped the belt on our metal camping table. This was going to be a long night ... and we hadn't slept much the three previous nights due to the almost gale force winds typical of the Lake Turkana area.

The Kenya / Ethiopia border has an infamous reputation for harbouring bandits (“shiftas”) from Sudan and Somalia and as a result we had made enquiries at the Police Headquarters in Nairobi and elsewhere en route regarding the security situation. We had been assured that it was “safe”. Since Maralal, a few days and a few hundred kilometres back in Kenya, we had actually become totally accustomed to seeing tribesmen carrying Kalashnikovs. They had all been friendly, or at the very least, disinterested. In fact for the past day it had been the rule rather than the exception for the herdsmen we passed to be armed. None of them wore uniforms of any nature, but we gathered that they were a sort of informal “home guard” trying to control cattle rustling and bandits. Oddly enough, we felt safer having them around. However, this lot of visitors tonight was turning out to be a different matter ... we would have to deal with them very tactfully.

The “leader” asked for water. He finished our last easily accessible litre bottle of water. The others also wanted water, so that had to be organised from our tank. They all wanted water. We had just come through not just one, but many deserts on our way to, through and past Lake Turkana, so water was not exactly copious – and we still had the whole of the wild and remote Omo Valley in Ethiopia to pass through before we would reach civilisation and reliable water. Then the sign language indicated that they were VERY hungry. I tried to ignore them and pretended not to understand. Pat started writing her daily diary and I started writing a letter to a friend in Botswana just to try and ignore the youths and we both hoped they would lose interest and go away. They persisted that they wanted food – and that Pat should prepare it for them. I gave them a pack of Glucose biscuits. The biscuits were thrown back, youths indicating they wanted “Chakula”, Swahili for food. I explained that this was food, “Mzungu Chakula”. They were not amused. Pat brought out our plastic container bearing our single remaining egg – and presented this to them, making it clear that this was the only egg we actually possessed. The “leader” sat down in my chair and looked stern. I tried to make light of the situation by sitting on his tiny portable headrest / stool – falling off in the process! This helped a lot. They still indicated that Pat must prepare food. I firmly indicated “no”. We scratched around for a pack of pasta which I handed to them. I showed them the cigarette lighter and lit it to indicate that the food needed to be cooked – by them. They were fascinated by, but unable to operate the lighter, obviously the first they had ever seen. They could clean, maintain and use an automatic rifle, but the cigarette lighter was new territory. The lighter gave me the important opportunity to regain my chair – and some sort of authority over the situation. The youths started chewing on the raw pasta, much to our amusement. There was a request for razor blades. My twin-blade razor came out – and I realised that there was quite a good chance it would draw blood as they started cutting their hair. Pat and I decided that there was not much else to do, but to go to bed – hungry – and not yet tired enough. Pat had managed to sneak my Maasai club, the Security Systems pepper spray and a packet of Kenyan Custard Cream biscuits into the tent, so we were ready for anything! The youths were NOT amused that we had gone to bed or the night, but to our relief they eventually slunk off disgruntled and hungry into the night. As we lay awake in bed, Pat and I tallied up – between them they had gained: water; one egg; a sealable plastic container – one of our best and only recently bought in Nairobi; a pack of pasta; a pack of Glucose biscuits; a box of matches; a razor; our strongest plastic water bottle, carried all the way from Caprivi Strip in Namibia some years ago; and, of course, the cigarette lighter. We had hardly arrived in the Omo Valley, notorious for its raiding and thieving and we had already been fleeced!

After a very fitful night's “sleep”, Pat and I agreed to get moving even before the crack of dawn. It must have been about five in the morning when I climbed down the ladder. As Pat emerged, she whispered our secret warning cry “Karamba!” A few hundred metres away a shape moved in the dust. As it rose, so did the silhouette of the Kalashnikov. The “leader” was back. Within less that a minute they were all back, plus a newer seventh arrival, also armed. They indicated that they were by now VERY hungry and that they wanted food. I indicated that we had none and that the best I could offer was some Kenya Shillings for them to buy food with. They were not happy, so I took the Shillings back. This made them change their minds and they accepted the Shillings “on second thoughts”. I packed away the roof tent in the meantime and we were ready to leave. “Keep calm, keep calm”, I kept telling myself. “Smile”. They still wanted food and there was no way that we could feed seven hungry youths – even if they were armed. “Time to leave” I said to Pat as we climbed into the car and tried to pull away. They stood around the car and tried to push it back. Much shouting ensued. Slowly but firmly we inched forward and moved off ... nervously. They ran after the car. We didn't dare look back. We hastily crossed river beds and thick sand, praying we wouldn't get stuck. We only dared stop briefly about half an hour later when we eventually came to a T-Junction indicating that we had reached the road between Omorate and Turmi – we were finally off the bush track from Kenya onto a “proper” dirt road.

The next few days were a whirlwind of physical and cultural experiences. In three days we met the most unbelievably interesting tribal people, living and dressing as they did hundreds of years ago. We searched for the eccentric Mursi people, whose women wear plates in their lips. We visited villages on market days, to take in the most interesting markets full of goods, animals, plants, spices, jewellery and people of all imaginable descriptions. The terms “medieval” and “biblical” spring to mind. The people were extremely colourful – like characters from an ancient, forgotten world. The roads we travelled were unbelievably bad and stretched our vehicle and 4x4 driving skills to the limit through thick sand, rocks, river crossings, washed away roads and, not least, the dreaded Omo Valley mud – black goo that is as slippery as oil when wet, but which dries to the consistency of concrete underneath the vehicle and on the tyres. Luckily the rains had been quite poor, so we were spared the worst of the mud and could generally find alternative paths. At the end of those three days, it felt as if we had been in the country for weeks.

We had jumped into the deep end of Ethiopia – and loved it! And there would still be much more to be discovered ...