By: Ahmed Mohammed
From Sidama
Join me as I adventurously, yet happily, climb up to Garamba, where the world unfolds beneath me like the first person gazing down at Earth from the moon. Where bamboo forests whisper secrets of cosmic layers, hyenas call in the night, and over a hundred spreading waters glisten under the sun. Where ancient men of wisdom bless my journey, and the land reveals itself as a green, hidden jewel—another water tower, named after the sacred plants that thrive upon its slopes.
There are mountains that challenge you, and then there are mountains that change you, teach and preach to you—a spot where a divine bugle awakes you from your deep sleep for self-discovery. Garamba, a towering beauty in Sidama, Ethiopia, is the latter. Its name comes from the lush local plants that blanket its green face, a testament to its role as a vital water tower for the region. Few know of it; fewer still have stood upon its summit—but those who do are never the same.
I set out at dawn, the cool mist clinging to my skin as the first golden rays pierced the horizon. Then, all of a sudden, it started raining. The air smelled of damp earth and wild bamboos, a promise of the wonders ahead. My heart raced—not just from the climb, but from the thrill of stepping into the unknown.
The lower slopes welcomed me with thick bamboo groves, their tall stalks dancing gently, as if they were rocking to comfort me. Rare sunlight filtered through in scattered patches, painting the forest floor in gold and green. The deeper I went, the more the world outside faded—no mess, bustle, or hustle, no distractions, just the rhythmic, poetic rustling of leaves underfoot and the occasional call of a hidden bird.
Then, a rustle. My breath caught. A family of wild animals of unique color and feature appeared in a completely mind-blowing landscape, not in the Amazon, but here in Sidama, Ethiopia. With my imagination, or perhaps remote viewing, I stood still, watching in awe as the creatures vanished into the green, quiet, yet complete embrace of Mother Nature. This is their kingdom, I thought, and today, I'm their guest.
As I climbed higher, the bamboo gave way to open air, so fresh and healing. The wind carried new scents—herbs, damp soil, and something cosmic. Then I heard it: the unmistakable signal of thunder, shortly followed by healing rain. A shiver ran down my spine—not from fear, but euphoria. I scanned the horizon, half-expecting to see the hidden animals of this hidden green land, but they remained concealed, their presence a reminder that they are busy communicating the words of the divine.
Come on, Garamba is not just a mountain—it is a fountain, a hidden gem that only traveling souls can unlock. As I ascended, streams appeared like snakes softly creeping through the grass. Some trickled gently; others cascaded down onto whitely washed rocks, their music a constant companion, no less captivating than that of Mozart’s. Locals say there are over a hundred springs here; I say, there are multitudes, but only seen by traveling souls, each feeding the rivers that sustain the Sidama lowlands and the Somali lowlands.
I knelt down and tasted the icy water in my hands, so pure, so mystic, and untouched, as if the mountain itself had offered me a drink. I closed my eyes, listening to the water and saluted it. The wind, the distant poetic steps of wild animals escorted me in chorus. This is why we call it a water tower, I realized—not just for its height, but for its generosity.
Midway up, I met them—the local elders, men of wisdom who have known Garamba’s secrets for generations. Dressed in traditional robes, so gracefully, so mighty yet friendly, they sat beneath an ancient fig tree, their faces lined with tales of countless years.
One smiled at me, his eyes sharp yet kind. Without a word, he reached out, placing a hand on my head—a blessing. His touch was warm, heavy with the weight of centuries. I didn’t need to speak Sidama to understand—this was Garamba’s welcome. “Nagaa,” he murmured. Peace.
I bowed my head in gratitude. Some journeys give you memories; this one gave me a prayer, a profound healing.
Then came the final push—the steep, rocky path where the air thinned and every step burned. I couldn’t breathe fully, yet I loved it. My legs ached, my lungs felt strained, but I couldn’t stop, not when the summit was so close. High up, I sensed a cosmic connection; down below, I saw the human world.
I stood at the peak, breathless, as the world dropped away beneath me. The wind roared in my ears, and for a moment, I felt weightless, untethered, just the way astronauts stagger on the moon at zero gravity. This must be how the first person felt on the moon, I thought, looking down at Earth. A strange, beautiful loneliness. A humbling perfection in this imperfect world. Garamba had shown me its soul, and in return, it had taken a piece of mine.
Going down was slower, my legs shaky, my mind still floating somewhere above the clouds.
By the time I reached the base, my body was heavy, but my spirit was light, enlightened, spiritually awakened, and emotionally composed. Garamba had been more than a climb—it had been a conversation, a dialogue that was well comprehended without words, with the land, the water, the creatures, and the wise men. It’s so perfect in this imperfect world.
