Chapter 2 – Footsteps

On September 23, 2004, I got a random email from my mother. At least, that is what I thought when I saw the subject ‘Email’ appear in my work inbox. Maybe, I had been expecting, a reply to the long email I had sent to her days earlier. I was quick to drop everything and started reading with excitement. Two days earlier, I had spoken to my mother about a work trip she was planning to take to South Africa. And without any suspicion, I was marveling about her visit to that fascinating country that I, too, dreamed of visiting one day. I had promised to call her once she was there, thinking how wonderful it would be to dial a new country code. 

The email started by thanking me for my last email. Followed by my mother letting me know that she had reached Johannesburg safely and that she needed to be on medication for longer than she had anticipated. And then it said, “Sorry for the bad news, can you call me on the following number?” 

Her sentences were all over the place, mostly misspelled and with the sorts of typos that you only make when you are in shock or in a hurry. Deep inside, I started to tremble. It was as if my body knew a secret that my brain, or even my heart, refused to acknowledge. Hands shaking, I dialed the number my mother had emailed. I felt a heaviness. I could hardly move my body. A feeling of numbness and panic took over my body and mind. My eyes filled with tears. But why? She only said she needed medication. The question was, for what? 

I looked around, just in case my co-workers were looking at me, but everyone was busy. I tried the number my mother gave me, but no one answered as unbeknown to me it was not her room number. I redialed and redialed the number, until, finally, someone answered and transferred my call to my mother's room. At that point, I was crying in a full-blown ugly way in my office. I didn't care. I wanted my mom, and I was thousands of miles away from her. Her email had said there was bad news. My mother was not a woman who talked about bad news on emails or phone. She didn’t even reveal that sort of news in person. 

I was shaking and crying uncontrollably when she finally picked up the phone and said my name. My mom tried to console me, saying it was nothing, that she would be okay once she got the medication and that I had nothing to worry about as she was surrounded by great doctors who knew what they were doing. And, that everything was covered by her insurance. 

Finally, she said that she would be fine and I was desperate to believe her, but for the first time in my life I heard my mother’s voice shaking. I heard fear, and uncertainty as though even she didn’t believe what she was saying. Between sobs, I asked what her diagnosis was. She went silent. I was silent, too because I didn't even want to breathe fearing I might miss the word she was going to say. In that moment of stillness, I hear a voice within myself say, “Cancer. Breast cancer.” 

I buried my head on my office desk and cried some more, I heard my mother saying that the doctors were still doing some tests. Maybe she said more but I was not listening. My colleagues started circulating my cubicle. Although they had no idea who I had been talking to, they overheard words like ‘treatment, doctors, and diagnosis.’ 

I never heard the word ‘cancer’ from my mother’s mouth. But, I repeated the word in my head, CANCER? CANCER! 

I suddenly felt overwhelming guilt with the fear. How could I even think my mother would have cancer? Why would anything like that even have crossed my mind? Cancer? Cancer in Ethiopia? I remembered all the movies I watched growing up and crying my eyes out when a woman was diagnosed with this thing called cancer. Most of those movies showed how she struggled and fought for her life, before dying, and leaving her husband and kids behind. Though I have come a long way now and I have a little more awareness about cancer in general, I never knew anyone who was affected by cancer in Ethiopia. I didn't even know it existed in Ethiopia and if it did what was it called in Amharic. The truth was, I didn't know. That made me feel even more guilty because I felt that I had wished that horrible thing that didn't exist in her culture, on my mother. 

I breathed, I tried to follow what my mother was telling me. The doctors were doing tests; she would soon know the diagnosis. It sounded hopeful and better, I told myself. Minutes later, I called my sister in Ethiopia, and she broke it down for me. “Our mother has been diagnosed with breast cancer, and the doctors have suggested she start Chemotherapy immediately.” 

March 27, 2007. My mother was given the ‘all clear' by doctors in South Africa. She went back to work. I got an email that said, “Call me, I'm in South Africa.” The last time I'd seen my mother was a year earlier. I had spent few days in Addis before I embarked on my adventure in Australia. That visit didn't go very well as we both had different things in our mind. All I wanted to do was spend some time with her. But for her, it was an opportunity to hook me up again with Dave, my, on again-off again, ex-boyfriend from Montreal, a man my family loved and respected. With ‘cancer' a word of our past, I thought that the phone call was going to be another dreaded conversation about my unmarried and childless life and her desire to fix that. Though I didn't want to have that conversation again, I was happy my mother was in a country where I could call her and have a long, uninterrupted conversation. Calling Ethiopia isn’t a pleasant thing to do; the connections are terrible, and there is a good chance of simply not being able to hear each other. 

I waited for the right time to call. I was in Australia, and she was in Pretoria, South Africa with a time difference of over nine hours. When we got a chance to talk, my mother started with her long, never-ending greeting and asked about my trip. She sounded calm and almost happy about what I was doing. I was a little impatient. I have always felt that the long, never-ending greetings are a way of avoiding meaningful sharing and I resent that part of the Ethiopian culture. So, I casually asked why she was back to South Africa. Suddenly, she sounded too tired to talk and passed the phone to my younger sister who was with her in South Africa. Once again, my sister had to break it down for me: the cancer had relapsed, and it had started to spread. 

The doctors had already started my mother on another round of chemotherapy, and it was expected to be a long journey. The phone call was to ask me if I could go back to South Africa to be with her since my sister had to go back to work. Nothing made sense. Everything went dark around me, and I heard myself saying, “But how? Didn’t they clear her, saying, She’s free of cancer?” My mother had even gone back to work. Did the doctors miss something the first time around? I was at a loss for words. My sister asked me again when I could be in Pretoria. I told her that I would be there as soon as possible. 

My time in Australia — a trip that was supposed to be a short, five-week journey around the country — had turned into a one year inner and outer adventure. I had fallen in love with the beautiful country and, it felt that magically, the people and the places themselves, had fallen in love with me, too. My original plan was to go to Japan after Australia. I was already armed with a six-month working holiday visa and a ticket. I was going to arrive in time to attend my best friend’s wedding. But with news like that, the decision was very easy and quick. I bought a one-way ticket to Johannesburg. 

I felt life was being unfair and cruel to my mother. I knew her desire to live and her long ‘to do’ list. Life wasn’t giving her a chance; she needed to get a break, she deserved to be healthy and happy after what she had already gone through. It was a total blow. I wondered how she was taking the news. I ached for her, for the dreams she had to put on hold, once again, until she finished her treatment. 

On my last Sunday with Dave in Port Douglas, we decided to visit a farmer’s market. We both had a thing for strolling around farmers’ markets and trying different local products. But what made that market special was the table for second-hand books. To me a farmer’s market with used books and good coffee is heaven. At the second-hand bookstall, I walked around the table reading the titles, touching and feeling the books and magazines. There is a comfort that comes from being around and holding books. I also have a theory that second-hand bookstore owners are not in the business for the money: they love books and are rare human beings who rescue used books and find them suitable homes.

There is also something else that happens when I pick up a second-hand book and hold it: I long for the story of the person who had just read the book. How did it change their lives? Did it make them laugh? Where were they when they were reading it? I have found a boarding pass used as a page marker, something I, myself, often do. I can imagine finding all those people to tell them I'm reading the very same book they had read once. I imagine asking about where they were to see if our lives were somehow in the same place when we read that particular book. 

One book caught my eye. It was in a box for much older books, and I immediately picked it up and held it close to my heart. The book had a picture of a girl, and the title read On Foot through Africa by Ffyona Campbell. I felt my heart warming as if I were reconnected with a long-lost friend or family member, who was looking directly at me and whispering, “If I can do it, so can you!” Two thoughts cross my mind at that moment. First, a great relief to know that I was not crazy and then that someone else has been living my dream. I bought the book and walked away knowing exactly what I was going to do with it. That book was going to be my travel companion for my long flight, from Melbourne, Australia to Johannesburg, South Africa. 

I read the book fast as if my life depended on it! Unconsciously, I guess it did. I mean, if a white woman from the UK could cross Africa by foot, how hard could it be for an African woman, like me, to do it? I kept thinking that my African background; my skin color would give me leverage, that I would be able to slip in and out of the borders without really being seen. 

While reading the book I felt my excitement rising, my heartbeat was racing. It was one of the most intense books I’d ever read. I was fascinated and inspired by Ffyona’s courage. But it was also sad to read she had to be evacuated twice because of war, and children throwing stones at her. I knew that there were still some countries in Africa that were so unpredictable when it comes to war. In 2002, I’d experienced waking up to find a coup d’état had taken place in Cote d’Ivoire, West Africa, which made me change my entire travel plan. I mentally worked on my own packing list, while reading On Foot Through Africa. It was as if all I had needed was someone's permission to achieve my dream, and with every sentence, Ffyona had written she was releasing me. 

It was a very emotional reunion with my mother. I had asked her not to come to the airport to pick me up, but she was there when I arrived. She looked tired and fragile. I only knew what my sister had told me, and that was that she needed two rounds of chemotherapy which might take about a year. I didn’t have the courage to ask my mother for more information, and she was not volunteering any. 

I convinced myself that it was better that way. That if I didn’t know and acknowledge the extent of the cancer that, maybe, I would remain positive which would help my mother more than if I knew and then wrapped myself in negativity. I was afraid what I might learn if I dug too deeply. I just wanted my mother to be healthy and happy, and I was going to do everything possible — including no more crying or falling apart in front of her. I told myself to put on my brave face and focus only on my mother’s needs. To get my mother's mind off the cancer chemotherapy, hospital trips and anything that involved medicine I tried to keep her busy by sharing pictures, and stories of my travel. Though she didn’t approve of my hitchhiking or staying with strangers, the mood was quite light, and we laughed about the stories most of the time.

When I mentioned On Foot Though Africa, I couldn’t control the intensity of my attraction to the story. It was clear that she didn't like the story or the way I was talking about it. It was as if her motherly instinct had informed her where I was going with it. And she disapproved when I said I was going to send the book to my sister to read. I knew I needed a better time to discuss what I had in mind, but I had started to feel a pinch of resentment toward God, the universe, and life for the miserable timing. Which also made me ask more questions about life: “Why did my mother have to get sick once again? What was the purpose of it? Did she feel fulfilled? How did I feel about death — my own and loved ones’?” I also felt betrayed by life. Suddenly, I had been given an awareness that I could achieve my biggest dream in the world, and it came as my mother was fighting for her life. How was that fair? How could I be expected to make a decision? 

In the past three years before she had developed cancer, I had turned to an online community for open, honest discussion and emotional support because none of those things existed in my own family or culture. Countless women and some men had given me space to share my feelings and fears. They had also given me practical advice on what to expect and how to cope with different situations in the journey. 

When I was in South Africa, I felt far from everything I knew: the talking circles; bodywork to release my stress; therapy sessions and the countless emails I got from strangers who had been my support system since my mother’s diagnosis. At least I was equipped with some understanding of how to be a good caregiver. So, I decided it was the moment for me to give as much support to my mother as she needed. I also felt it was time to work on healing, communications, and forgiveness while I had all that time alone with her. I looked at it as an opportunity, and there was so much to get through. My promise was to address everything and start over with my mother once again. 

I also promised and assured my inner wanderer soul, that I would not forget my dream. I remembered when I was growing up in Ethiopia, in a time of hardship, people would promise something (a candle, money, etc.) to their favorite saint and I remember walking for miles to make a pilgrimage to Saint Gabriel with my family. I loved that trip. I don’t remember if I had a wish granted or not, but I do remember that I was happy to be on that journey. I had walked every bit of it then. And now, I decided, my pilgrimage was going to be Africa. 

Africa would to heal me. If I could travel Africa and survive it, I could survive anywhere else, I thought. It was also going to keep my mind off everything happening around me. I felt there was a higher price in not taking that journey than actually doing the travel and surviving it. There was no time to worry about what was going to happen to me or to entertain my fears. For some strange reason, it was a life or death decision for me. 

Though I hadn’t figured out the how or when yet, I knew deep inside that the journey I was about to embark on was going to be sacred and very different from any of the trips I had taken in my life so far. I also knew that when I said, “Yes” to that dream, it was going to mean a thousand ‘no’s’ to most things I knew in my life. That ‘yes’ was one of the hardest, I've ever said in my life. Every time I braved that ‘yes’ from within and I tried to share it, I felt like I needed to protect it from missiles dropping from every direction. The experience was like being in-between two big rivals, who are pulling for their side to win. The result was exhausting! 

I was not new to defending or justifying what I did or how I chose to live, but that time because of my mother’s situation, it was different, it needed gentleness and compassion. It also felt important to have her bless my journey, but I didn’t want to upset or worry her, given her circumstances. I needed a different approach for the situation. In the past, I would simply plan my journey and say, “Hey I'm going.” I never asked for permission or approval from anyone. I had no idea what this journey through Africa would mean to me. I worried, that if what everyone said about Africa was true and I got killed along the way. I worried that my mother’s illness would change for worse and I wouldn’t be able to get back to her in time. Those fears kept me fully focused on her those first few months when she was going through the chemotherapy. 

In the meantime, thanks to the couch surfing community, I had the chance to introduce my lifestyle to my mother through travelers who came and stayed for a weekend or longer. Initially, she blamed and doubted herself for the way I turned out, but over the months I saw my mother ease into understanding that I was not the only one with a lust for travel. She had felt that she was the only mother who carried the burden of an unmarried daughter; a daughter who wanted to wander the world without the prospect of leaving a legacy, as many women did by bringing a child to this world. But, thanks to people couch surfing, she met and spoke to numerous young, and not so young, people about a lifestyle she never could have imagined. My mother found it interesting how articulate, open and honest we couch surfers were about our feelings. She was surprised at how much we trusted each other with our dreams, emotions, and desires and were able to share at that level. She had never experienced that, ever! Her generation and the ones before never sat around with strangers discussing their personal life. 

It was new to her, magical and at the same time, scary. Through those couch surfing brunches, lunches, dinners, picnics, and drinking sessions, my mother discovered not only a new world but also discovered her daughter. She heard my stories with strangers, heard about my fears, desires, challenges, goals and aspirations. I sometimes saw a touch of sadness in her eyes. I wondered if that sadness was regret that she hadn't had the opportunity I had, to choose a life without marriage and children. In those couch surfing meetings, there was no limit to the subjects we discussed. The topics ranged from trying to find love to break-ups and broken marriages, to LGBTQ rights, spirituality, women’s struggles with wanting to have children (freezing eggs, sperm donation), loss of loved ones… Before those meetings, my mother had no idea where I stood on most of those issues. But I still wasn’t able to tell her I had broken up with Dave. I was afraid she would be disappointed and worried about me. That was a secret my friends, and I had to keep when she was around. 

I also had the chance to spend time with her friends, mostly the UN expats based in South Africa. They gave me the opportunity to learn so much about my mom’s generation and also about Ethiopia as a country. When they talked about Ethiopia, I always felt like it wasn’t the same country I grew up in. It was a different era when there was still a king. There were times I wished I had been born then: they had vision, understanding and a sense of responsibility for the country. 

My travels across Africa would need lots of inner and outer preparation. But the hardest step was simply saying ‘yes’ to the call. Why? That ‘yes’ went against everything my family and friends believed; they thought my idea was the most stupid, craziest thing they’d ever heard. That ‘yes’ went against my entire culture which believed women belonged to their father's or husband's house and kitchen. It went against the media and travel warnings that were given about some of the countries in Africa that I planned to travel to and through. It went against my own fears and the very real possibility of contracting any number of harmful diseases. It also meant going against my own mother who was fighting for her life. So, saying that ‘yes’ was one of the hardest decisions I’d ever made. 

It was as though the entire world had had a meeting to decide my place on earth as an African woman but had forgotten to send me the memo. The result of my saying ‘yes.’ to the call left many people close to me surprised, confused, saddened and frustrated. 

• Update #3 - Abyssinian Nomad in Africa coming soon Nov. 1, 2017

  Dear Friends and supporters of Abyssinian in Africa, 

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