The directions that had seemed simple in the book suddenly grew complex at Harar's minibus station, where everyone was shouting and no one spoke English.

Timidly, I asked for "Dakata?"—the nearest village to the Valley of Marvels—but when I received no reaction I then asked for Jijiga, a larger eastern town. Understanding dawned, and I was pointed to a large empty spot where others were waiting. I had planned to spend a few hours hiking in the red desert valley geologically sculpted into gravity-defying formations, but the route there was becoming unclear.

When the converted RV that evidently served as a bus arrived, I again asked about Dakata, but without being able to explain my request further in English, I simply hoped the driver and my seatmates understood.

Guma had offered to accompany me. I hated myself for my suspicions, but I was uncomfortable at the idea of being alone with him and also didn't want to pay a guide for a trip that sounded straightforward.

The bus was jammed full. Passengers spread across the blanket-covered area between the driver and the door while others stood. As usual, the girls seated near me didn't speak English; even the simple name "Dakata" met blank looks. Handing 10 birr to the bus driver's assistant, I repeated "Dakata" again, getting a brusque nod in response. Watching him collect fares, I learned that sharp finger-snapping is the accepted way to get attention in Ethiopia.

The young guy next to me was much more interested in helping, and had already told me with limited English that I would be better off coming home with him. He had such a baby face and innocent smile it was hard to feel offended. He promised to let me know when we reached Dakata.

Uncomfortable with his stares and uninterested in continuing the conversation through gestures, I contented myself with people-watching. The passengers chatted loudly and the women, only about half of which wore scarves, were surprisingly flirtatious toward the men. We stopped frequently to pack more people on as other passengers got off to stretch. The drive was gorgeous, but knowing the Valley was supposedly just 7km past the bustling little town of Babile, I worried about unknowingly missing my stop.

My seat partner did finally speak up, and after a brief chat with the driver, the bus pulled over. No one else budged while I climbed over the boy who wanted to spend the day with me, and found myself stranded in a random patch of dusty road lined with steel sheds.

I wandered over to the shacks, still hoping this was Dakata, and quickly discovered I was in a construction crew camp. Men, women and children drifted curiously towards me from behind a fence. One man hesitantly inquired, "Chinese?" When I affirmed, he barked "CHINESE THAT SIDE." I looked where he pointed, seeing similar sheds set further back on the other side of the road.

Knowing that Chinese are the principal workers on Ethiopian roads, I couldn't help wondering if this was the bus driver's idea of a joke. Or perhaps he genuinely thought he was just taking me home to my people.

Two young, friendly construction workers invited me into their shed. I would have preferred one of the families extend an invitation, but it was better than nothing. They spoke English better than anyone I'd met so far in Ethiopia, but there was still a great deal of silence. Sipping the glass-bottled Coke they offered, I wondered if I was horrible for finding this type of conversation exhausting...although I knew I would put up with the awkwardness to meet local women rather than always men.

They attempted to bring me around to the Chinese side to say hello, although their reasoning wasn't clear; it didn't matter anyway as no Chinese came out to greet us. Back on the Ethiopian side, the guys changed clothes and started talking about spending the day together, suggesting they come hiking with me in the Valley because of course I shouldn't go alone.

Frustrated as the day wore on and realizing no one at home knew of my desert whereabouts, I'd lost interest in hiking and wanted to move on to Babile. They kept telling me we could ride in a construction truck to the next town east, that it would be easier to catch a bus in a real town. Annoyed at the idea of backtracking, I obstinately stood on the road waiting for a westbound bus, while the guys sang soulfully along with a Christian rock mp3 playing on one's cell phone. After a long wait, a Babile-bound bus drove right past me and I finally agreed to take the construction truck.

Only a few minutes up the twisting road, we pulled over when a bus headed our way. I jumped out and was so irritated by the last few hours I couldn't be bothered to thank the construction workers for brokering my ride. I sprinted towards the waiting bus in relief.

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