And suddenly being on the road with a different time measurement isn't a mind game anymore, no longer a "what if ...", but a reality. By crossing the Ethiopian border, we become eight years younger at a stroke. In the country still applies the Coptic calendar with thirteen months per year and thus we enter the land not on first January 2015 but on 23. Tahsas 2007. But during the first days in the Ethiopian highlands we see a world that seems to be much more in the past than only eight years...

Golden yellow fields extend over the hilly ridges. Small settlements of brown, mud-plastered round houses are nestled in the valleys. The half amphorae on the roofs doesn't fulfill its job as a chimney. Smoke pushes through the straw. It draws a gray veil over the road and immerses the environment in a low-contrast light. If you really could stop time here, there would emerge faded images, ready to be hung as photos on the mantel, as a memory of the past. But there's the unmistakable sweet acrid smell of burning cow dung, the rhythmic movements of day laborers, kneeling in rows on the ground and working through the vast fields with the sickle, that are reviving the scenes. Oxen walk in circles, thresh the ears to straw. A golden veil is flying high into the air, the wind blows the useless chaff to the west. What remains is a pile of small brown grains. Tef, an endemic cereal and basis for the national dish “Injera”, the acidic soft flatbread. Eight years back in time? No, probably eight hundred. As if a history book comes to life, the chapter's heading: Agriculture in the Middle Ages.

But suddenly the book slams, with a single word. A high child's voice, distorted and demanding screams across the fields: "Mooooonnnneeeeeyyyy!" Like an echo it propagates, taken by a dozen other children and rapidly approaching us, "You, you, you..., money, money, money." In between, there are also less common objections. Faranji (foreigners), Abba (father), Heiland, and now and then a lost Welcome, followed by an unnecessary Fuck you! Throughout the country the voices are persecuting us, from the silly bugger who can't know better, to adults who should know better. In the slopes they grab for our things, from time to time also flies a stone. We knew it. Cyclists have to report almost only bad things about the country. But right now it's the only way that leads relatively safe to the south for travelers. We have to go through it.

In the evening we stop in a small town. Within seconds at least fifty curious gather around us. Actually as always, when we stop for a moment. Hundreds of staring eyes, at least half of them by this cheeky tots. We're tired and want to find a safe place to stay as quick as only possible. While Ivo's making tracks to find the teacher, Russell and I hold the line.

One of the men starts a conversation. As it pleases us in Ethiopia, he wants to know. For a moment there falls a deep silence. After a day of constant shouts and harassment it isn't that easy to go into raptures over the country. Finally, we praise the beautiful countryside and the wonderful coffee. Yes, the coffee is really second to none! Every morning with start with two cups of fresh coffee. In every small town you can find it. A simple shelter, in the middle there's a low table, covered with fresh grass and on it the white coffee cups are properly lined up. A woman's sitting behind it, fanning the embers in her little tin stove with a piece of cardboard. In a frying pan with a long handle she starts to roast a handful of Ethiopian coffee beans. The fragrance spreads spicy and is carried away over the road, as she shakes and swings the pan through the air. Then she crushes the beans in a mortar and brews it in a clay pot. A lump incense is burned, two generous spoonful of sugar are given into the cup and the coffee is poured from high above. A brown, foamy jet. Heaven on earth...

But this is just nothing to remember. We're still burning in hell. The overnight place search drags on for another while, the crowd moves forward. Elbows push in the back, the smell of sweat increases. Also our interlocutor has enough now. He takes a stave and goes off to the closest people. The mob flees. We're stunned. On the one hand we see every day how adults are welcoming each other politely and courteously - a respectful handshake, a light touch with the right shoulder - and then again adults and children go with stones and sticks at each other.

Not only to time we seem stranger here, but also to the interaction between the people. Once we can breath easier again, our counterpart continue the conversation as if it had never existed an attack. Full of expectation, he asks what we know about his homeland. Well, the world's best coffee we have already mentioned. The world's best sprinters come next. And there is so much that Ethiopia sets apart from the other countries in Africa. Ethiopia hasn't only its own calendar, but also its own script, it's the birthplace of the Rastafarian movement and the only country in Africa that has never been colonized. What remains is a fascinating cultural diversity. And the people are proud of.

During the Second World War, the fascist Italians had indeed conquered the country for a short time, but were driven back by the end of the war. "We are the only people in Africa that could hound out the white occupiers solely of the country!" Said the young Ethiopian now. "...With the help of the British", Russell dares a small correction. But that doesn't get any attention from our counterpart. With the expulsion of the Italians, Ethiopia gained though its freedom, but lost its sea port forever to Eritrea. The source of all wealth, the maritime trade with the country of incense, Yemen dried up. A nearly twenty years of socialist military dictatorship reigned and the country sank into bitter poverty. Is it this background that still nourishes the contempt of all foreigners and explains the flying stones?

In our cheerful small talk another round with the stick is necessary. Ivo comes back from his search. He holds up the thumb. We can stay in the garden of a house. The owner is a policeman and has an AK-47.

The next day it goes steeply down over 1500 meters into the Nile gorge. At the bottom an elegant suspension bridge spans over the river, built and financed by the Japanese. In the past decade Ethiopia has on average received three trillion dollars a year in development aid.

After three weeks of running the gauntlet we try to give to the country a second chance. We store our bikes and make our way to a five-day trek through the Bale Mountains, the last refuge of the endangered Ethiopian wolves. And this UNESCO National Park is also a haven for us.

Up to four thousand meters leads the path, in a lonely landscape of arid plateaus, clear streams and small lakes, which reminds us of the Swedish Fjell. We cross wide Lobelia forests, wander through juniper bushes and silvery saxifrage cushions. In the evening we gather wild oregano to refine the pasta sauce and enjoy the twinkling stars before the cold drives us into the tent. The peace of nature helps us to tackle the last four hundred miles in the country with renewed vigor.

In the Omo valley, time seems to be damed even more and has come to rest. Women in tanned leather clothing and animal skins walk on the street, with bare breasts and necks that disappear under heavy shell necklaces. We meet men with stylized hairstyles, ornamental rings and scarifications. But even here, a deep crack gaps in time.