I left Konso early in the morning. Everyone on the farm was still asleep except for the old man who danced that night with his machete. We said a warm goodbye and I walked into town.
Even though the sun was barely up, the bus station was packed with people going to Arba Minch. There had been a teachers' conference in Konso the day before and everyone wanted to go home. The teachers were dressed in traditional Ethiopian clothes - long skirts to their ankles, white cotton cloth covering their heads and shoulders - but they were all wearing suit jackets.
There was a crowd, but no bus. A biology teacher from Arba Minch patted the ground and said, "Come, wait with us."
Her kindness and our friendly conversation lulled me into thinking that I would have an easy time that morning. Little did I know.
The first minibus pulled into the yard. The door opened and the crowd rushed for it - pushing, elbowing, in one mass.
As quick as that, the bus was full, the door closed and they were gone.
Still, about 60 people stood in the empty, dusty lot.
It was a shock to be left behind like that. I knew if I was ever going to get out of Konso, I need to steel myself and be ready to fight some old ladies.
When the next minibus pulled in, I was ready.
In a move that is probably the single greatest accomplishment of my life, I ran to the bus with the crowd, threw my bag onto the roof and dove in. And maybe I only got one part of one bun on a seat for the three-hour drive, but I was in.
I was feeling proud and relieved and ready for the door to close, but it didn't. People kept pushing their way in. There were nine seats but by the time they finally pulled the door closed, there were 23 Ethiopians and one American taking up every inch of space. The windows were opened so body parts could dangle out.
A man next to me looked at the tangle of people, looked at me and laughed.
"In Ethiopia, transportation is difficult," he said.
Even though he was still in his 20s, it turned out he was vice president of his regional council and he was visiting the south to see what they grew and how in hopes of leading agricultural efforts back home.
As we drove, he pointed out the different crops - mostly sorghum and bananas - and told me what he knew about them. His narration distracted me from the fact that my knee was bruising from a suitcase that had been placed on my lap and that my other leg had completely fallen asleep. I couldn't move part of my body.
Then the bus stopped in the middle of a village and the door opened. Somehow they squeezed three herdsman in and the conductor rode on the outside of the bus, standing on the lip of the door and hanging onto the luggage rack.
*****
When I first came to Arba Minch, it looked like a small, dusty town on the banks of two beautiful lakes.
Approaching it from the other direction after staying in Konso, it looked so shiny and clean and modern.
I took my first hot shower in weeks. The dirt that came off my body turned the base of the shower brown.
Clean. I went to the hotel courtyard and ordered french fries, a bowl of tomato soup, a cold beer and a Sprite.
I relaxed into my new-found luxury and watched the people walking by.
I saw a line of men and something about them seemed out of place. They were carrying single-serve bottled of Gatorade, like the ones you buy in the convenience store in the states.
The thing that made it so strange is that you can't buy Gatorade in Ethiopia.
As I wondered where they found it, I remembered reading an article that the U.S. has a drone base in the area because of its proximity to Somalia. I realized I was seeing members of the U.S. Air Force heading to work.
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