They Told Me Not to Go to Ethiopia Alone — So I Did Anyway

When I told people I was going to Ethiopia — alone — the reactions came fast. “Isn’t it dangerous?” “You’re going to starve.” “Why not Paris?” The truth is, I didn’t have all the answers. I just had an instinct that Ethiopia would be unlike anywhere else I’d ever been. And I was right. But not for the reasons I expected.

I landed in Addis Ababa on a Wednesday morning with a backpack, a vague idea of where I wanted to go, and a list of emergency contacts that my mom made me print out. The airport was smaller than I expected, and the air was thin — literally. Addis sits over 7,500 feet above sea level. My lungs noticed immediately.

My first few hours were disorienting. Taxis didn’t follow the rules I was used to. My phone barely worked. I couldn’t read half the signs. But after grabbing a macchiato at a tiny café with plastic chairs and the warmest staff I’d ever met, I felt a little less like a stranger.

The next few days, I wandered through Addis Ababa with no plan. I visited the National Museum and stood face to face with the fossilized bones of Lucy — the 3.2-million-year-old hominid whose remains were discovered here. I sat in Meskel Square and people-watched for hours. I ate injera until I understood why it was more than just bread — it was a way of life.

And then, I booked a flight to Lalibela.

If you’ve never heard of it, Lalibela is a town in northern Ethiopia famous for its rock-hewn churches — carved entirely out of stone in the 12th century. Some call it the “New Jerusalem.” When I arrived, it was sunset. The cliffs glowed. The town smelled of dust and eucalyptus. A young boy offered to guide me to my guesthouse, and even though I was skeptical, I let him. He didn’t ask for anything but pointed out which dogs to avoid — which I appreciated.

The churches were unlike anything I’d seen. Not just old, but spiritual in a way that felt bigger than religion. I saw barefoot pilgrims. I heard ancient hymns sung in Ge'ez, a language older than English. A priest let me hold his 700-year-old cross. I had to promise not to post about it online — so I won’t.

One morning, I hiked to Asheton Maryam, a monastery perched high above Lalibela. The climb was brutal. No shade. Loose rocks. Thin air. I wanted to quit 20 times. But at the top, the priest smiled like he’d been waiting just for me. He poured me a cup of coffee — roasted over a tiny fire — and told me I was “very strong.” It was the best coffee I’ve ever had.

From Lalibela, I traveled south to the Omo Valley. That was the part people warned me hardest about. “It’s not safe,” one traveler had told me. “It’s chaotic.” And yes, it was remote. I rode in a van with chickens and a goat. But I also met tribes with traditions I’d never heard of. I danced with the Hamar people during a coming-of-age ceremony. I learned how to make flatbread over an open fire with a woman who didn’t speak a word of English — but taught me everything with her eyes and hands.

Throughout the trip, I expected something to go wrong. A scam. A theft. Something to prove all the warnings right. But it never came. Instead, I found constant kindness. Bus drivers who waited for me. Locals who shared meals. Children who waved like I was famous.

Was it easy? No. Ethiopia challenges you. Infrastructure isn’t always reliable. Roads are rough. Sometimes there’s no Wi-Fi. But I didn’t come for convenience. I came for connection. For contrast. For growth.

And solo travel gave me all of that — times ten.

Traveling alone in Ethiopia taught me how to trust my instincts. How to listen more than I talk. How to be flexible when plans fall apart (which they did). And how to feel completely at home in a place that looks nothing like the world I came from.

By the time I returned to Addis Ababa for my flight home, I felt like a different version of myself. Not because I had seen a different country — but because I had seen myself navigate it. Alone. Successfully. Joyfully. Gratefully.

So, if someone tells you not to go to Ethiopia alone — smile politely. Then go anyway.

It just might change the way you see the world. And yourself.