The Blue Nile Falls

Tis Isat (the Water that Smokes) may not be the biggest, the highest, or the mightiest waterfall in Africa, but it has played no less a dramatic role in one of the world's most famous rivers. Initially discovered by the Portuguese (history seldom gives credit to real discovers), Scotsman James Bruce attempted to present his version of the true source of the Nile to 18th-century England. A dilettante, who at his own expense, spent ten years in the region, suffering unimaginable hardships, returned to England only to have no one take him seriously. He returned to his estate, grew obese, and stiffed the ghost writer of his books. People were more horrified at his accounts of the natives eating raw meat than his premise that Lake Tana and the Tis Isat was the source of the Nile. Later he was to be proven halfway right; this was one of the sources, but not the only one.



For a few dollars I join a ferenghi bus (ferenghi being a foreigner) with a few Americans, a French guy, and three girls from Madrid to drive out to the falls. I highly recommend this because the driver employs a "guide" to walk you up to the falls. My guidebook says: "Independent groups are not obliged to pay extra to hire a guide, but the alternative is pretty gruesome--a train of children demanding money, yelling, hurling stones and generally doing their utmost to ensure they spoil the experience." Lovely.

On the climb up the hill, dozens of these kids circle around you, pushing gourds and scarves in your face. "My name is Marta. Marta. Remember only me when you come back. I will be here, waiting." And there are about fifty Martas. But the day is beautiful and the climb is pleasant. Since it's been so rainy, the falls indeed deliver--cascades of muddy water crashing and plunging wildly over the precipice. I wonder if someone threw a beach ball in how long would it take to reach Cairo.

On the way back down the path, those cute, polite little children morph into howling, shrieking banshees. The guide whacks a stick into the ground, and they turn in unison and thunder out of there, much like sheep or some sort of hoofed animals stampeding in the face of danger. But they come back. I'm almost left alone, but the Spanish girls are doomed. The kids start screaming for pens, sweets, anything. It's insane. We pull away in the van through the gauntlet, and one little boy runs for all he's worth, sticks his head in the window, and yells: "PAY!!" Take any of these kids, clean them up a bit, and put them to work at the Limited Express or the Gap at the mall, and they'd make a killing.

Spanish girl mobbed