My Name is Allison, and I'm a Juiceaholic
Half a dozen Ethiopians are watching Drew Barrymore and Cameron Diaz having a water fight. A few glance away from the television only briefly as I step down into the dark, sunken cafe to escape the suffocating afternoon heat. Prince seems to be a prime interior decorating influence; purple satin curtains and gold fixtures contrast dusty artificial mango trees and burgundy walls. Bushels of fake green hay are scattered along the steps and floorboards for decorative appeal (although frankly, it gives me the urge to sweep). I'm grateful for the soft breeze of a giant white ceiling fan, spinning vigorously as its blades slice through the hot air. It's a relief to be less interesting than a bad Charlie's Angels remake. No one cares that I'm here. After a frustrating morning of being hassled at the nearby market I had nearly given up and gone back to our hotel in Bahir Dar, the fourth rest day destination of the tour. But that won't be necessary.
The menu at the Tselalo Cafe Bar & Restaurant is written in Amharic, but the charmingly polite owner speaks perfect English. I order the fasting platter and he asks if I'd like to wash my hands. I always do, especially now that I'm living and working amongst a community of poster children for gastrointestinal upsets. I pass through a sunny courtyard into what looks like a woodshed, with walls as black as shoe polish and a dirty chrome sink along one wall. A man stands next to me, his face, hair and hands covered in a thick lather of pale pink soap, and I watch as the last sliver dissolves into his skin like disappearing ink. Water alone will have to do. Shortly after returning to my table a large silver platter arrives draped with injera, the thin grey flatbread made from fermented grains of teff considered the staple food of Ethiopia. Tiny air bubbles give injera the appearance of honeycomb or tripe - its rubbery, somewhat soggy texture a perfect conduit for scooping up the various delectable offerings of the completely meat and dairy-free fasting platter. No less than 12 items are perfectly arranged in tidy, equidistant piles along the edges of the injera like colourful globs of paint on a palette: brilliant purple beets, stewed green swiss chard, crispy french fries (!), tomato salad, pickled radish, semi-translucent cabbage, a green jalapeno-like pepper stuffed with onions, and a selection of bright red, yellow and orange chickpea and lentil purees. A large pool of spicy burnt orange sauce sits in centre. I gleefully dip and tear into the meal with gusto.
The food is immensely filling but so good I persevere and finish the entire plate. I can feel the familiar symptoms of a food coma coming on; the antidote must be administered quickly. A machiatto arrives within minutes and I stir together the layers with the precision of a nurse prepping a syringe - a thick blanket of milk beneath black as tar espresso. It has far too much sugar, but lately I've developed an insatiable thirst for these tooth-decay specials. The bill comes to 20.5 birr including the 1.5 litre bottle of water I take for the road. Not bad for less than $2 Canadian. I step out onto the scorching pavement and recoil like a vampire exposed to the sun. I'd keep vampire hours if I lived in Africa. It's just too damn hot to do anything during the day other than sit in a darkened lair and wait for the sun to go down. Hats off to the cyclists who ride in this heat every day.
The next day I wake up early after a late night of dancing and a few too many celebratory rest day beverages at the annual TdA Bahir Dar dress-up party. This year's theme was Mardi Gras and the mood was appropriately festive. I splashed some water on my face, found Chris, the TdA mechanic, and headed out on a mission to find eggs and dose of Ethiopia's famed layered juice drinks. Let it be known that I have a shameless addiction to fruit in all its forms. That morning I slurped back my third juice in less than 24 hours, and before leaving Bahir Dar that number would be six. If you ever get the chance to try one, you'll understand why. The juices come in one size, served in a thick, clear glass mug on a dish with half a lime and a spoon (and sometimes a straw). Purists may stick with only one or two flavours, but I prefer the quad: mango, avocado, pineapple, banana (substituting papaya or guava for one of the last two is acceptable). The mango is sweet and gelatinous, the pineapple and banana clean and unaltered, while the creamy avocado is truly the star - just a hint of sweetness and the texture of soft-serve ice cream after ten minutes in the sun. I don't know how they do it. Satiated, I returned to the sanctuary of my hotel room and indulged in an epic four hour nap. I woke up ravenous. Being that I'm a creature of food habit, I went in search of a layered juice fix. I locate a trio of juice bars laced together like conjoined triplets not far from the hotel. Each bar was bustling with customers, and I was curious to know the key to their success despite such market saturation. There was only one way to find out. I went to all three (careful to jump from the third to the first and then the second, so as not to appear conspicuous). The verdict: no discernible difference. I have a hunch six juice bars could open right next to one another in any city in Ethiopia and they'd all be packed. The stuff is just that good.
We're now in Addis Ababa, where I'm about to venture out on another rest day juice mission. As I type slouched over a carved wooden coffee table in the hotel office, the smell of damp earth fills the room, like the scent of a garden hose soaking dry soil. The tiny office is tucked away amongst ferns and vines close to a small outdoor washing area where riders are furiously scrubbing their spandex chamis in blue plastic buckets. I keep my headphones on to minimize distractions, and the lack of appropriate audio cues makes the flurry of activity around me that much more surreal. Four to five hotel workers come and go throughout the morning, taking turns tapping away at a large mustard-yellow 1970s table-top accounting calculator sitting on a brown desk. An Ethiopian soap opera flickers from a television in the corner. A woman in a navy skirt and blazer flutters around the room pouring dribbles of water from a large plastic bottle onto the floor then sweeping them into the scarlet carpet. She takes thirsty gulps of water from the bottle in between sweeps, stopping to sit on the couch and watch her programme every few minutes. The hotel appears happy to have us, despite having no rooms to rent to our riders. The hotel lawn is the temporary home for the EFNT (Every Night in a Tent) among us, and it's a decent lawn, as far as these things go. It's a much quieter morning than usual. The rest of our crew have migrated to one of the nearby hotels, descending on the purveyors of hot water, soap and fluffy pillows in Addis. Tomorrow they'll get back in the saddle for our last week in this beautiful country. It's going to take at least that long to mentally prepare for the lack of layered juice after Ethiopia.
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Posted February 22, 2010 by Allison Barnes
Ethiopia | Tour Updates |
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