Our destination is Awasa but we have a few places to visit first. The rock hewn church of Adadi Maryam is reputedly the last church built by King Lalibela and while she may be country cousin to his eleven up north, she’s still beautiful with three of her four sides carved from the surrounding rock.

From there it’s a stone’s throw to the stelea field at Tiya. Sporting symbolic carvings of women’s breasts, wooden pillows and swords, the stelea have stood for centuries in testament to the bravery of ancient warriors, their identity lost in time.

A boy offers us a dead iguana. He lets me take a photograph but declines the tip. He’d rather we take the reptile off his hands. It’s too small for a handbag and would be wasted as a purse so we wave goodbye and hit the open road.

The countryside is dotted with subsistence farms, worked by the entire family and their stoic donkey. Everything from ploughing to the reaping of crops is done by hand. I see a two year old teetering after a herd of goats, waving a pint sized staff at his charges.

Africa’s Great Rift Valley lakes begin in Ethiopia, with Lake Ziway being the largest of the northern group. From the stone jetty we watch fishermen prepare their nets amid the hundreds of water birds wading in the shallows. Marabou storks, stilts and even pelicans — my reluctant birding heart well, flutters at the spectacle.

Heavy toll on the environment

Beleaguered Lake Abiata’s poor treatment at the hands of humans has resulted in the death of its fish population and the subsequent desertion by its bird life. The flamingoes, living on the resulting algae don’t seem to mind and they line they shores in a thick candy pink stripe. Lake Shela, Abiata’s twin is by no means identical and here the bird life thrives.

Ethiopia’s population, the third largest in Africa, has taken a devastating toll on the country’s natural resources. Increased government effort, coupled with the work of non-profit organizations, give hope that for Ethiopia’s diverse wildlife, happier days may be ahead.

At the Senekele Wildlife Sanctuary the number of endemic Zwayne’s Hartebeest continues to grow, thanks to tireless efforts of the staff. From the viewpoint we look over rolling plains dotted with Acacia trees.

“Go away, you’re disturbing the animals,” our ranger shouts at a group of locals cutting grass for thatching. His stern voice sends them scurrying but they wave mockingly in their retreat. Delicate negotiations with the farmers living on the park’s borders continue.

The fish market at Awasa is the best place to watch the locals bringing in their early morning catch. Fishermen prepare the nets while monkey’s chatter in the trees, competing with the seagulls that herald the return of the next boat. Everyone trips over the goats. Pelicans float between the boats, grabbing fish guts that the children throw. And in the tallest branches, Marabou storks keep a watchful eye.

"… Nesichar National Park is heaven … "

Things turn ethereal. The tarmac melts into a myriad of potholes and we’re surrounded by hundreds of people. The music the King’s been playing turns into a symphony of hoots, and we slowly snake our way through. It’s market day. Everyone, with their livestock, is trailing into town.

Nesichar National Park is heaven. A thin strip of land, called the Bridge of God, divides Lakes Abaya and Chamo. The park’s diverse habitats are home to over 90 mammal species and out on the plains the white savannah grasses are home to massive herds of Burchell's zebra.

The previous day’s heavy rains make the going tough, especially around Lake Chamo. We slip slide in double thick mud but the King is determined. He’s not having his guests wade through the sludge and eventually we make it to the landing stage.

Fancy shopping at the crocodile market? When the waters are lower, we’re told that the gigantic crocs basking on the sandy bank are too numerous too count. The few that slip past our boat are easily 2.5 metres long. It’s hippo territory too and one pops up next to our boat, a disgruntled snort reverberating in the air before the hippo slips under again.

Time to spot a wolf

We drive into the clouds, beyond the 3000m above sea level mark. Dorze is renowned for its cotton weaving and elephant-shaped huts. New huts are built as tall as 12 meters high. Throw in 70 years and a couple of termites to nibble at the base and the huts eventually drop to 3 metres. The locals utilize the false banana palm for everything from thatching to bread, which we’re served, piping hot with a chili dip from hell.

Next stop the Bale Mountain National Park, where we hope for a sighting of the elusive Ethiopian wolf. There are approximately 600 left in Ethiopia and we’re up at dawn on what can only be described as the coldest day in the history of Africa, but we rate our chances. The wolves like early mornings, when their staple diet, the mole rat, forages for food. But up on the Sanetti plain things get murky. The mist shrouds us in a thick blanket.

With our mission temporarily abandoned, we trundle down to the Harenna forest. It’s a fairytale setting where the giant trees are covered with old man’s beard and fern, wild coffee grows abundantly and troops of colobus monkey’s frolic in the leaves.

"… Our guide arrives and hands his gun to a teenage boy…"

Back on Sanetti plain the sun still refuses to play ball. Like bedraggled sentinels, giant Lobelia trees huddle in the mist and everything is icy. We keep our eyes peeled and suddenly, a red-orange blur. A lone wolf slopes towards us and for the briefest moment, the mist lifts and we’re treated to a perfect sighting.

The Web River has seductively carved from limestone the huge caverns of the Sof Omar Caves. Named after a 12th century Sheik who took refuge there, they remain an important site for Muslims. Our guide arrives and hands his gun to a teenage boy. In turn, we hand our torch to the guide and begin our descent. We leave the King at a serene cave where people can offer thanks for prayers fulfilled or pray for guidance.

In the dry season it’s possible to cross the river seven times but the recent rains have left the river impassable. We explore the caves instead, visiting the giant cavern where Sof Omar lived and taught for over 40 years. In the complete darkness we listen to the squeal of bats and the rush of water on its way to the Somali desert. We head for the light, passing the prayer cave, now filled with the spicy scent of incense.

Our guide retrieves his gun and we wave goodbye. All too soon we’re low flying along the fresh asphalt of the Butajira highway, back to the bustle and mayhem of Addis Ababa, the "new flower" of a mystical old country.