Jumping the Bull: Surviving Life, Love and Adventure in Ethiopia

By Maureen Magee

Jumping the Bull: Surviving Life, Love and Adventure in Ethiopia is a travel memoir with a twist. As a middle-aged woman, experienced world traveller and occasional travel-documentary host, Magee arrived in Ethiopia prepared for a belligerent cameraman, rampant poverty, menacing tribal cultures and campsites shared with crocodiles and baboons. A lovestruck guide determined to woo her was not on the itinerary. Not in any country, at any time. But, to her own amazement, she eventually succumbed and abandoned her Canadian home, job and securiy to experience life in Ethiopia. Establishing an intercultural relationship turned out to be the wildest adventure of all - definitely not the change of life that Mother had warned her about.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maureen Magee
• Release date: Jun 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463362884

Maureen Magee

Maureen E. Magee is an award-winning writer of travel stories and has been the featured host on two of the Canadian "Off the Map" travel documentary series (Baffin Island and Ethiopia.) She is a regular contributor to the travel website Your Life is a Trip and has been published in the Calgary Herald, "Moose on the Loose" anthology, Island Writer magazine, South American Explorer Magazine and Room of One’s Own journal.She started travelling early in life when her father would re-locate with job transfers and insisted on taking her along. After leaving home, Maureen just kept going.A mid-life divorce pulled her away from her five-star travel habits into a more down-and-dirty world of backpacking and she spent seven months on a mainly solo, round-the-world adventure.Meeting up with travel videographer Doug Spencer provided exciting film trips (Off the Map) to Baffin Island in the Canadian High Arctic where she sled across and camped upon the frozen ocean. Her second film trip to Ethiopia to visit remote tribal groups provided the experiences in "Jumping the Bull: Surviving Life, Love and Adventure in Ethiopia."When not travelling or writing, Maureen has worked as an interior decorator, car salesperson, secretary, cultural manager, companion, writing instructor, and whatever else it takes to pay the rent.

Book preview

1

Good-Bye, Old Life

1988. Twelve years earlier, Toronto, Canada

I had managed to get through my life in a fairly normal fashion and could never have imagined myself in such a situation. My family had lived an ordinary life; my father had a career that required us to transfer to different parts of Canada regularly, and when I left home at eighteen, I just kept moving. Not really travelling, but changing jobs often and moving to different cities on a whim were the first indications of a wanderlust that was developing. By thirty-seven, I was a professional woman with a wonderful husband whom I loved and respected. He was my best friend and we had been married for fifteen years. We had started out with nothing, but he earned a good salary (better than my arts administration pittance) and we had made some wise real estate investments. We lived well, taking cruises and five-star holidays to popular resorts. A bit of a princess when travelling, I enjoyed all the comforts—renting a car and being spoiled with room-service breakfasts.

I adored my husband; we got along so well that I would brag it was like a hand fitting into a glove. Friends admitted that they thought our marriage was close to perfect. I thought it was close to perfect.

And then one day, it wasn’t.

Some marriages sicken and die; there are warnings that all is not right. But when my husband was forced to crack open the closet door and admit his homosexuality, our marriage split apart as if it were struck by lightning. The man I thought I knew had another side, one that he had been fighting against for years. He had denied his own feelings and kept up the front so well, that we were regarded as the ideal couple, even by me.

With such a major chunk dislodged from our marriage’s foundation, with something so fundamental gone wrong, one would think it would be a clean break for us, but it wasn’t. My life had been turned upside down and I was not only stunned, but furious. I could not figure out where to direct the anger; shouldn’t there be blame to be laid? Wasn’t this someone’s fault? I needed to shout, scream, hate. But—who could I shout at, other than the universe? He hadn’t cheated on me; that would have been easier, as I could have thrown him out onto the street, called my friends and family and cried over his bad treatment. I could have hated him, then. But I couldn’t hate him—because it wasn’t his fault. I knew enough to understand that being gay was part of his chemistry; it was nature. There was no one to blame. And there were still so many qualities that I loved about the man; his humor, his intelligence, his kindness—–they remained the same. On one hand, he had kept a monumental secret from me. But then, what else could he have done? If he had confessed during our dating time, or early marriage, I would never have had those fifteen years of joy, laughter and wonderful experiences. His suffering had been silent while he suppressed his own feelings and carried on within a traditional marriage. His crime was to live the kind of life he had been raised to believe was correct. For years, he had lived the life that made me happy. Although my life was upside-down, his was upside-down and inside-out.

And now, because I loved him, I had to keep his secret as well, until he was ready to tell the rest of the world. Although friends and family probed, poked and dug away for explanations of the perfect marriage going sour, I couldn’t betray him until he was strong enough to face the reactions that he would eventually have to endure.

I don’t suppose anyone can guess ahead in their life and know how they will react to divorce. Had I given it a thought—which of course, I had not—I doubt whether I could have foreseen how my marriage breakup would change me. The actual divorce—the separation from a partnership back into singlehood—did not affect me as deeply as the awareness that, should I fall in love again, I could be fooled again. Would I ever know someone, truly know them? What might the next man be hiding? Although, at the time, I was unaware that suspicion had imbedded itself in my heart, for years to come, I would always be wary; second-guessing each new lover, never staying long enough for the other shoe to drop.

But, for that first year I spent my time soaking up too much white wine, and sat dry-eyed, staring into the fire. I wanted nothing more in those months than to move backward and restore my delusory perfect life; I fed myself happy memories with such a vengeance it was as if I could rebuild the sandcastle of that old life. Thoughts of my future options were not allowed in. The past was where I wanted to be. Eventually, I reached a point where I did want to move forward—or perhaps even sideways— just move in any direction. But it was if I was stalled at a traffic light that wouldn’t change. I spent a great deal of energy cursing the cosmos. I had been a good woman, had followed the rules, had been sensible and still, my life had shattered.

And then one night in front of the fire, my brain started functioning again. With a pen and paper, I started tallying the pros and cons of my situation.

My husband and best friend—was gone.

My major source of income was gone with him, and I was left with a low-paying and tentative career in the not-for-profit field.

Our charming, forever home had been sold. I now had a mortgage on a decrepit seventy-year old house that craved constant attention.

My mother had died in that same year; my father was starting to take trips into the land of dementia.

I had no children, brothers, sisters, aunts or uncles.

I opened another bottle of wine. The assets list was much shorter.

---

I was a thirty-seven-year old woman who, with the bank, owned a home.

I had my health.

That was it? That was it.

Well, surely owning a home had to be a major advantage. It was security. Someday, it would get paid off and then I would be safe. I would never be out on the streets as an old lady, eating dog kibble or living under a bridge. I would be here, on my little porch, in my rocking chair. . .

Just a minute. What do old people do when they sit in their rocking chairs?

They remember. They relive their memories.

From there, my thoughts began to connect and gain momentum. Outside the window, leaves whipped off the branches, and blew away in the October wind. Those leaves, like my marriage, would never come back. They had three seasons to exist and then they were gone.

I had great memories to that moment, but fifteen years of those were about my marriage. Now what would my memories be? Scrimping and saving money to keep the house in one piece? Oh, that would be fun to reminisce about. Forgoing little pleasures like theatre, dinners out, new clothes, in order to maybe take a small holiday each year?

That thought hurt most. Holidays had been luxurious with my husband; I realized those were not going to take place in my new life. How would I ever see the world?

I had a burst of insight about what was more important. Entertainment or new clothes were just things. I could give up things if I had to, but my spirits plummeted at giving up my dream of travelling the world. Those were the memories I wanted to make.

Do you realize that when we go on holidays to Mexico, the only real Mexicans we meet are the waiters, or the hotel clerks? I remember once asking my husband.

Uh, yes? he wavered, unsure of where I was going.

"But we never get to meet real people, in their real lives. We don’t see how they live, just how they work in a place that is a replica of how we live!"

I knew he understood me, but it didn’t seem to be as important to him.

For the last few months, I had been grieving the loss of my past life. Now I began to realize the loss of the future I wanted. I had a job I didn’t much like, no husband, no kids, no money. And then, everything flipped over.

No husband to consult with and consider. No kids to tend or be responsible for.

No one to consider, but myself.

Nothing to hold me back. I could break rules, if I wanted. Who would stop me?

Freedom.

A twinge of guilt with that word. I had adored my husband; I couldn’t remember feeling restricted in our marriage. Until now. With the perspective of distance (and drink) I wondered if I had felt trapped, for that new-found thought of freedom was tantalizing. Except for a poor-paying job and this old house, this broken-down, shabby, money pit of a home, I had the freedom to do whatever I wanted. What had seemed so sensible a year ago, when I bought the house, now reminded me of a poorly-chosen relationship, one in which I had to negotiate each of the house’s needs before my own desires.

---

Good morning, house. I would love to get tickets for the new musical in town, but I know that I need to get a lawnmower for you . . .the neighbor is getting grumpy that I borrow his so often.

---

Hello, front steps. You seem to be sagging more tonight than when I left this morning. Shall I put aside my tax refund to repair you? Or do you think that the postman will mind if you disintegrate a bit further, while I go out and have some fun?

---

Sweetheart, I must complain that your drafty windows are costing me a fortune in heat.

---

Is that what security meant—that I would be kept poor and tied down? That my memories would be nothing more than a life un-lived? I could be free without you, house. I could make new memories, I could. . .

Uh oh. I knew I was on dangerous ground, but there it was. The one material item that

had seemed such a mature decision—the house—was the one thing holding me back. If I kept it, that is. If I did not keep it, then that one item might provide me the freedom to move towards a different future.

I had always been a quick decision-maker. Within forty-eight hours, the house had been appraised and put on the market. It had gone up over twenty-five thousand dollars in one year. I had found my green light and I knew, without a doubt, what I had to do. I had no second thoughts, no fear and not a whit of common sense.

I would leave, of course. Leave everything. And wander.

2

The Winding Path To Ethiopia

The world was waiting for me; so many places to choose from and I leapt into the planning as if I were a five-year old on Christmas morning. With my pink marker, I plodded through the index of an atlas and highlighted every place that struck a chord of desire. There were over 200 names, ranging from Addis Ababa to Ulan Bator, Bolivia to Vladivostok, Shanghai to the Shetlands and with Zimbabwe closing out the A-List. Deep down, I recognized that this could be a problem. But—because I am stubborn as well as mathematically-challenged—I did the math anyway. Logistically, it was not possible. So, I sat on the floor, attempting to break it down into an A, B and C list, surrounded by maps, guide books, airline schedules and a calculator. The planning became a drag, I could almost hear the air fizzling out of my joy balloon. Why on earth was I applying such a buttoned-down method of escaping my buttoned-down life? In my imagination, I could simply walk out of my home, and with one piece of luggage, head out to the airport to begin my new free life. Imaginations do have a tendency to be a bit too simplistic. The answer came the next day with an early October snowstorm, forcing the winds to whistle through the cracks in my window caulking. Was it possible, I thought, to stay warm for a whole year? How would I do that, just keep travelling to avoid the cold? And it wasn’t hard at all; New Zealand was warm in January, followed by Australia and the many choices of South East Asia. In May, I would head to Japan, where I would keep warm by joining a bike tour. And then head West on a cozy train from China through Mongolia, Siberia and Russia until I arrived in Europe in summer.

Freedom equated with spontaneity for me. And so, aside from the pre-arranged bike tour, I had no idea how long I would stay in any city or country. If I didn’t like one of my choices, I would move on. If I loved a place, I would stay as long as I wanted. I did not wish to be hampered by deadlines. I did not wish to be hindered by a travel companion. This was my gig and I was going it alone. I was going to be a Solo Traveler, for the first time in my life. It took four months to complete the sell the house sale. I gave notice at my job and packed my belongings into storage.

That solo trip around the world lasted seven months; my minimal planning style resulted in some glorious, off-the-cuff adventures (including a couple of fun romantic flings) and when I returned to Toronto, I was infected with travel fever.

A year later in 1990, my biggest adventure started with a notice in the travel section of a Toronto newspaper: Local filmmaker making series of travel documentaries, wants experienced traveler to join him and travel down the Amazon River to visit the remote Yanomamo tribal people. Must be prepared to be filmed, rough it, carry heavy equipment and pay own way. It sounded like fun to me, and I applied. I didn’t know it then, of course, but this marked the beginning of my journey to Ethiopia, even though it would be nine more years before I actually set foot in that country.

As things turned out, the filmmaker (Doug Spencer) chose someone else for the South America trip, but he kept in touch regularly, offering me several other opportunities until we finally ended up sledding over the frozen ocean off the northern tip of Baffin Island, camping on the floe edge and leaping across open-water cracks in the ice. We weren’t the best travel companions; I found him thoughtless in his narrow-minded focus on filming, and there was a fair amount of hissing and spitting at each other—but, how else could I have had such an amazing trip? He’d definitely upped the ante for my adventure cravings. No longer a princess, I had become a budget traveler, able to go farther on less money and, for some reason, enjoying the hardship. Each trip became a new challenge, to see how much more down and dirtier I could get. Don’t ask me why. And Doug was safe to travel with—we weren’t remotely interested in each other, so I didn’t have to worry about romance cluttering up the adventure.

During the next few years, I had little time to worry much about the state of my romantic life. A fling here, another there, but no one was allowed to stick around for long. I left Toronto after a short try at selling cars, and relocated to Victoria where I sold furniture. I left there and settled in Calgary, where I started a new career as an interior decorator, while still keeping up some freelance travel writing. Travel, writing and decorating together became my greatest joys. To spend someone else’s money to create beauty, to travel and write about it—that was happiness. I was working on a book of short stories from my trips around the world.

So, when Doug the cameraman called in 1999 and asked if I wanted to do another of his Off the Map travel documentaries with him, I was ready. I was in a position to take a couple of weeks from my job and this new venture could make a great story. Traveling with Doug always did.

Where? I asked, although I didn’t really care.

You’ve got four choices, he replied. I’ve got complimentary air tickets to Haiti, Ethiopia, Ghana or Greenland. I’ve lined up three other women, but I’ll give you first choice. Where do you want to go?

Well, what a decision! They all sounded appealing to me.

Hmm, I mused. Greenland sounds pretty exotic . . . but I went to the Arctic for the last film. Would it be too much to use me up North again?

Could be right, Doug agreed.

Soooo . . . Haiti sounds a bit scary. Would we be visiting people who do voodoo?

Probably. Can you handle that?

My mind hollered No! but that made me angry so I said, Sure, I could handle it. But you know, Ethiopia sounds pretty wild, is there anything there but desert and famine?

Yeah, there’s stuff. What about Ghana? Doug asked.

I don’t know; Ghana seems the most mainstream. It wouldn’t be my first choice, but I wouldn’t turn it down, either.

In other words, you’ll go anywhere?

Yeah. You decide. I like to be surprised.

How soon could you be ready? he probed.

Oh, give me three weeks’ notice. I’ll need to get a visa, then all my shots and arrange a cat-sitter.

I’ll get back to you, he said and hung up.

Another filming adventure in the offing was news that begged to be shared, and I toyed with the idea of calling my lifelong friend Marian, who lived in Northern Ontario. But, as I lifted the cordless phone from its charger, I thought again. Never one to spare people’s feelings, least of all mine, Marian had berated me without mercy about the 1990 trip to the Amazon that had never even materialized. And she had been less than supportive about my Baffin Island adventure.

I could just hear what she would say if I called her now.

"You’ve totally lost your mind! Seriously—Doug? You couldn’t stand him after the Baffin Island trip. And now you’re just going to head off with him to a destination unknown?"

There was little point in telling her that I would know the destination before we actually headed off.

Oh, I see. Well, that is so very reassuring. Marian always did have a sarcastic way about her.

I could picture her glaring at me over the rim of her glasses.

Oh, I know, this is too damn weird for you to resist—you’ve got that look in your eye again. The look you got when you decided to quit your job, sell your house and travel around the world all alone.

You’re making me out to be some sort of fruitcake, was my standard protest in self-defense.

And, in my head, I could hear her typical reply as clearly as if she were in the room with me. "Maureen. I don’t personally know anyone—anyone—who would want to do this. You are a fruitcake. As a matter of fact, you’re nuttier than a fruitcake. You are not normal. Admit it."

And my reaction was always the same. "I’ve been normal—where did that get me?"

Thinking now of the exasperated sigh that was Marian’s signature way of punctuating her disapproval, I returned the phone to its charger. After all, Doug would be calling back and I didn’t want to miss that.

3

Tempting Fate

September, 1999, Calgary, Canada

Travel Clinic doctor: Of course, you will take condoms?

Me: What? It’s a business trip! I’ll be in the jungle, not having sex!

---

In the twelve years since the divorce, my romances had