This article first appeared in the St. Louis Beacon: June 23, 2008 - LALIBELA, Ethiopia - A decade or so before English noblemen extracted the Magna Charta from King John, the great King Lalibela of Ethiopia was engaged in a spectacular feat of architecture and engineering, building a dozen cathedrals down into the hard, pink bedrock.
The task seems superhuman. Legend has it that angels helped the king. I'm not much of a believer in divine architecture, but it's hard to understand how mortals could have hewn these churches out of the rock.
As the story goes, the residents of this ancient country considered it their religious duty to make a regular pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Often, they didn't make it back. King Lalibela believed he had instructions from God to build the churches to represent the Holy Land and to save his constituents the arduous journey. One church is dedicated to Mary, for example, another to the angel Gabriel. I get good shots of Gabriel to show my son-in-law Gabe back in Boston.
At least one of the churches is built out of a single rock. Another, the one most often pictured to the outside world, is shaped like a cross. Inside a few of the churches are fading scenes carved in the rock. Also inside the churches are Greek Orthodox priests, leaning on staffs, guarding the "Holy of Holies" behind the curtain at the front of each church.
The Holy of Holies is the replica of the Ark of the Covenant. The Ark is supposed to be the wooden receptacle that contained one of the original copies of the Ten Commandments received by Moses. The Ark is supposed to have great power - the power to defeat armies and burn enemies.
As the story goes, the Queen of Sheba was an Ethiopian who had King Solomon's child. The child returned to Jerusalem and a member of his party took the Ark when they returned to Ethiopia. It is now supposed to be at the nearby ancient city of Axum.
It's an exaggeration to say that modern-day residents of Lalibela still live in the 12th century. But a lot of daily life in this village hasn't changed.
Given the landscape of dry foothills and mountains, Americans might think they were in the dry parts of Colorado, if they could ignore the ox-drawn plows, the huts with thatched roofs and the burros and donkeys beside the road. The American flag is visible on some of the sacks of food on the donkeys' backs.
A stone road winds through the village, past the churches. Americans walking along the road are immediately approached by children seeking money. These kids would make good used-car salesmen.
Often they'll start the conversation by saying they are practicing their English for school. Some Americans, such as myself, are too stupid to ask the obvious: If you're practicing for school why aren't you in school?
As we leave the hotel grounds, three young teens came up to us, one attaching himself to each of us. Later, when we had a chance to compare notes, we discover that Jyotika's friend said he is second in his class, loves chemistry and wants to be a doctor. My new friend is first in his class - I'm proud to have attracted the future valedictorian - loves physics and wants to be a doctor. He seems pleased when I tell him one of my sons is a physicist.
With the help of our church guide, we figure out these are tall tales. At the end of the day, we meet the trio again and pay them to clean our shoes. Unfortunately, my guy cleans my leather shoes with soap and water.
Children are not the only ones begging. As we leave the rock churches, a woman crawling on her knees points to her leg that doesn't have a foot. She's obviously trying to elicit our pity. We're becoming hardened to these pitches.
On our tour of the churches, we're told we should hire someone to watch our shoes because we have to walk shoeless inside the chapels. Jyotika decides that our designated shoe guardian wants too much money. We say we'll look after our own shoes.
To focus too much on the begging, though, is unfair. These are a religious people living a hand-to-mouth existence. They sit in circles of 20 or 30 people praying during the middle of the day. This is not for show.
Some of the thatched huts are two stories. They were built that way to keep the animals on the first floor. This had the benefit of helping to warm the second floor where the people lived. I didn't ask what the living quarters smelled like. Apparently, they don't put the animals there anymore.
One of the biggest changes - and you see it all over - is that corrugated metal sheets have replaced thatched roofs. The metal looks awfully hot, but villagers say they're not bad and they don't need the yearly repairs that thatch requires.
Meals are an experience. My main goal is not to get sick. In Bahir Dar, our previous stop, I watched with awe while the journalists in our workshop ate huge chunks of raw beef, a real delicacy.
Jyotika, our team leader, tells all of the servers that our food must be steaming hot and gestures with her hands to show imaginary steam rising above the imaginary dishes.
The restaurant where we end up eating lunch and dinner is a colorful place, popular with locals. It is round, and the interior of the ceiling is a beautiful quilt. Most of the locals order a plate of injera - a spongy bread made of a grain called teff - with some kind of meat sauce on top. We see the steam rising and are encouraged.
We end up ordering goat. I've never had goat. When it comes, the meat is hot but the vegetables on top are cold. Cautious, I say I'm not eating the dish for fear that the raw vegetables will make me sick. Jan, one of my companions, looks at me like I'm crazy and digs in. I order another goat dish, and the meat was tough.
At dinner, we give such detailed orders about what we want that we have a long wait for the food. Jyotika and I rekindle our friendly debate about libertarian, Western watchdog journalism vs. "development" journalism.
Her argument is that much of Western journalism amounts to little more than writing up government releases or following the horse race in political campaigns. This shortchanges journalism aimed at social change, she says. She doesn't believe in government control of the media but thinks development journalism that emphasizes social change is more appropriate to the developing world than watchdog journalism.
My response is that writing up government releases or covering the political horse race is mediocre journalism, whether it is practiced in the United States or the developing world. Good journalism is good journalism wherever it is practiced. It not only watchdogs the government, but also goes out into the field to shine a light on injustices in society.
For example, the journalists here should go to eastern Ethiopia to assess the extent of the famine. The United Nations has estimated that 6 million children could face starvation; the government has claimed that is grossly exaggerated. The good journalist checks the competing claims and describes the problem in human terms.
Jyotika nods, but is clearly unconvinced. Jan is nodding, too, nodding off. Our discussion apparently isn't as scintillating as we think, and she's still jetlagged.
After more goat, we walk back toward the dark hotel where we need a big bucket of water to flush the toilet. Our three young friends from earlier in the day are standing in front of a tiny shack with the preposterous name, "Internet cafe."
"Need Internet?" they call out. We've figured this trio out by now. We laugh and turn into the hotel. One boy makes a final pitch for Jan to give him another $15 to buy a school uniform. We wave and go off to bed.