It was 5am and still dark outside when the first knock sounded at our door, with someone calling out that we needed to get up. I’m not sure how I understood all of this considering my lack of Amharic.

The previous night Gabriel had mentioned that transport to Hawassa from Shashamane was not a problem, so I promptly went back to sleep.

The knock came again at 8am, saying checkout time was in half an hour. I got out of my room to find my friend negotiating for an extra 30 minutes so we had time to take a shower. It was a difficult negotiation because our mastery of Amharic matched theirs of English. Words like bus, price, money, and numbers were all that could be understood.

Travelling in a country with a language barrier, I realised that there are various gradations of English. At the basic level, there are just smiles and laughter in response to attempts to communicate.

Then there is the level of a smattering of words, followed by limited vocabulary and the use of the home language’s conjugation and grammar. There is a higher level where you can speak and understand most of the time, but once in a while some misinterpretation happens that shows you how wrong you are. Then there are those who speak perfect English.

I had a heavy breakfast of avocado, scrambled eggs, ciro (a red chilli paste popular in Ethiopia), onions, chilli, and bread from the local bakery. Then we embarked on our sightseeing.

There were two things we wanted to see in Shashamane; the first and most important was Malkoda, the rastafari settlement. Some Jamaicans moved to Ethiopia after being gifted it by Emperor Haile Selassie in 1948.

The other site was the Rift Valley. We had heard that it was bigger and grander on the Ethiopian side.

Outside the hotel, there was a man in a Bajaj waiting to take us sightseeing. We hadn’t asked for him, all we had asked for was a guide. The bajaj rider wanted 100 birr for a day’s work. A trip in a bajaj costs about 6 birr ($0.3).

We only wanted to visit two places so his price was clearly elevated. So we chose to walk, determined to get to Malkoda by ourselves. The guide we had been given followed us; his English was of a reasonable level. We walked a short distance and then he got us a ride in the back of a truck.

We got to our first destination eager to see just how great the Rift Valley looked from this side, only to find we had been led to a hotel called Lily of the Valley. Our guide took us in and we realised there must have been some information lost in translation about where we wanted to go.

We explained with hand gestures that we did not want to see a hotel but the Rift Valley itself. He nodded, seemingly in understanding. However, since we were closer to Malkoda we decided to go to the Rastafari community first.

Our guide explained that in Malkoda marijuana possession is “allowed,” technically illegal but this is not enforced; in the rest of the Shashamane you would be arrested if found with the drug. He took us into a café and told us we could order a joint off the menu and smoke it. I didn’t see anyone smoking the whole time we were there.

A lady came over and spoke perfect English in a Jamaican accent. I’m not sure what made me happier, the lilting tones of the Caribbean tongue or the fact that there would be no misunderstandings.

We told her we were from Kenya. She told us that her husband had visited the country recently, and that he would probably be interested in meeting us.

Her husband was a heavy-set man in his 60s. He had made a vow not to cut his hair a long time ago and his dreadlocks were impressive. His beard reached past his chest and was flecked with white hair. He spoke like he had given much thought to his words, and had an infectious laugh.

He told us that he had come to Ethiopia in 1976. He belonged to an organisation called the 12 tribes of Israel, whose aim was to send willing people to Africa.

He told us how each member of the organisation was assigned to one of the tribes depending on their birth month. For example, as I was born in June I would have been a Levite, and my ceremonial colour would be purple.

“Ah, you’re a Levite? Mlevi (drunkard.) Things make sense now,” one of my friends joked.

The man’s belief in pan-Africanism and African nationalism was infectious. He spoke with passion about the continent’s place in the world, Africa’s illustrious history, and appealed to us to be proud to be African.

After a few hours with him, we asked our guide to take us to the Rift Valley. This time he did not take us to the Lily of the Valley hotel, but to the Rift Valley Hotel. We took this as a sign that it was time to move on to the next town.

We picked up our bags, got into a taxi (in Ethiopia the minibuses are called taxis and taxi-cabs are called contracts) and were soon on our way back to Hawassa.

Having been in Hawassa before, walking through it was much easier. We found a hotel quickly as the feast of St Gabriel was over. A few steps from the city centre and you will find a place to stay that costs between 100 birr ($5.3) and 200 birr ($10.6) per night.

We asked the receptionist how to get to the beach and soon we were lost. We asked some girls for directions, but their level of communication was just smiles and laughter. We walked on sure that we would find our way. One man heard us speaking and talked to us in English; we said we wanted to go to the beach.

Disregarding his personal commitments, he walked us far out of his way but the beach was closed.

There was a bar close to it and we decided to have a drink there. We thanked our friend whom we christened St George because the biggest beer company in Ethiopia is St Georges. St George is the patron saint of the Ethiopian army.

Hands above our heads we clapped four times, this being the signal used in Ethiopia to catch the attention of a waiter or waitress, and a beautiful waitress came to tend to our needs.

The following day, at 5am, we were on the bus to Addis.