Our Nice Hotel Room
Addis Ababa
While waiting for our luggage, we began chatting with a 38 year old Italian doctor for the Italian Embassy in Uganda. I couldn’t help but mistake him for Mel Gibson. He was quite friendly, and despite the night before, we managed to be as well, especially when we spotted his Bible – the all important guidebook – a necessity we lacked.
So, Dr. Eric picked a "nice" hotel and we shared a taxi. A minute from the airport, I realized that I was no longer in "black Africa." The people here were different: different facial features, hair, smiles, and attitudes toward foreigners, "farangs" as they are known.
Ethiopia is a country of 65 million, land mass bigger than France and Spain combined. It’s recorded history dates back 3,000 years, yet because of recent famine, drought, war, and lack of Masai Mara style game reserves, very very few tourists make it a stop – far fewer than any other country in East or Southern Africa.
Our nice hotel room on the outskirts of town consisted of a
red-satin covered queen bed, a cot with a board for springs, a
broken mirror mounted four feet off the ground, a toilet that
needed near-constant attention to flush, and a shower connected
to a water heater that was totally inoperative due to the exposed
electrical wires perilously close to the spout. For 35 birr ($5)
a person, we really couldn’t complain.
Our first day in the capital our trio decided to do the mandatory bookkeeping all travelers must deal with. We proceeded to change money, inquire about getting a visa for neighboring Eritrea, and purchased needed hygiene supplies. A few hours of this, and we were ready for lunch.
So, we settled in to the first restaurant we came across, the name of which will have to go undocumented as the Amharic alphabet is not of Latin origin. Unfortunately, the only menu was printed in the same alphabet. As our host didn’t speak English and there were only six items on the menu, we took our chances by pointing to one of each. A few minutes later, our table was overflowing with chicken, lamb, cabbage, carrots, and some bean puree like substance. And, the traditional Ethiopian bread, Indira. All three of us were stuffed and quite satisfied. The bill: 28 birr, ($4), including 2 cokes each for me and Trent and a beer for the esteemed doctor.
The previous night and the heavy meal took its toll. So, we staggered back to the hotel and settled in for a "nap" at around 4 p.m. We didn’t leave the room until the next morning, although to Trent’s credit he was ready to rally and hit the clubs. It was, after all, Friday night in the Big City.
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The next morning came and we were off to see the sites of Addis. The museum was somewhat interesting and provided spectacular views of the city. Just outside, there is a semi-circular area overlooking about 14 "lanes" of traffic at a five way intersection. No signals. Some boys were practicing sprinting around the 300 meter grass arena. Trent informed me that he ran some track in high school. Never one to miss some free money (and a good photo opportunity) I bet him $5 and took the kids. After they practiced another six or more sprints, Trent approached and issued the challenge. About a minute later, I handed him a crisp new 5 dollar bill.
On our way back to the hotel, we made a wrong turn. The winding back roads of Addis don’t see many farangs and Trent and I gathered our fair share of stares and giggling children. One kid, a boy of 14 named Dawit, approached and spoke reasonably good English. Within minutes, we were negotiating the deep alleys toward his house.
Dawit invited us in to see his paintings. The two room mud wall house sheltered his 11 year old brother, his father, Dawit, his paintings, and memories of his recently deceased mother – taken by Tuberculosis. Dawit’s paintings were quite impressive. We stayed and looked through his things for about an hour. Never once did he ask for anything other than for us to "stay for Chai" (Ethiopian tea).
Between Dawit’s house and the hotel, we passed a building supply shop. Trent and I, eager to repay our kind host, bought a fortune ($20) in paints, brushes, and paper for our new friend. Dawit was overjoyed and vowed to return the next day to present us with our very own paintings.
That night, fully rested and ready to rage, we headed out for some action. For dinner, we went where our very convincing cab driver, Paul, said: Karatoma Club. It’s quite a happening spot: excellent food, cheap beer, and live Ethiopian traditional music. Half way through our dinner, a few more farangs wandered in. "Hey Phil!" one of them said. I had no idea who he was. "Hey!" I said unconvincingly. "Remember me? Frances? I met you in Zanzibar a few months ago – this is my brother – we partied with you and your friends New Years Eve." Well, that at least explained why I didn’t remember them.
Despite my bad memory, Frances and his brother, two Danish girls, and a British couple joined us. The music started up, we ate, we drank, we decided to go Disco together.
The only disco in town worth visiting, according to taxi-driver Paul, is the Condor club. We went. It was quite a distance outside of town, but well worth the drive. Trent and I weren’t even through our first beer when I overheard his conversation with his new friend: "I’m a student, I like to dance, and I like to <BEEEP>." Meanwhile, I was busy making alliances with the Danish. Frances and his brother were getting drunk – they had actually just finished the stretch of Northern Kenya by truck, it took them two weeks to negotiate 100 kilometers of terrain.
Three a.m. came quickly and I was fading. The Danish girls just would not stop dancing long enough for me to catch my breath. Eventually, I managed to make a break from them and then realized that I hadn’t seen or heard from Trent for a few hours. Luckily, when I found him, he wasn’t doing too badly. He was surrounded by no less than four spectacular beauties, all trying to convince him that it was him that they wanted, not Canadian citizenship. Being so popular is very tiring, as Trent said, and he departed shortly thereafter – alone. As for me, the great Danes signed me up for "dancing until close."
Early afternoon, we awoke to Dawit’s knocking on the door. He had, as he had promised, brought us our paintings. We thanked him and tried in vain to get back to sleep. Instead, we decided to go on a mission: find the Danish girls and take them to lunch. This was not easy. The only thing I really remembered about them was the partial name of their hotel: "Park". Paul, now permanently joined to our hips, quickly volunteered to drive the mission. There are at least 5 hotels in Addis with a partial name of "Park". Two hours of searching, and on the fourth hotel we located them. We discovered at an exorbitant Chinese lunch that they drank their personality, so we ditched them as soon as possible.
As it was early afternoon, there was still adventure to be had. The national stadium, just across the street from the Chinese food, was brimming with activity. We decided to check it out. "Eritrea vs. Ethiopia" the young ticket scout told us. Football (soccer, for the uninitiated Americans). Well, we entered at the gate by paying the 2 birr (35 cents) entrance fee. Unfortunately, we were about two hours early. There was a girls soccer match going on to pass the time, so we chose the blue team and started cheering, much to the delight of the surrounding fans.
The sun was pelting us, and there was no shade in our "economy section" at the far end of the field behind the goal post. After a lengthy debate, we decided to move to the "VIP section", shaded, right at mid-field. At the VIP ticket counter, we purchased tickets, 10 birr. Before we were allowed in, however, we were thoroughly searched. For some unknown reason, they really didn’t like our cameras. So much so that we were denied entry. An argument ensued (quite calmly mind you, as the gate guards had AK-47 machine guns) and we lost. As were were walking away, a kind and gentle official called us over and urged us to try yet another gate. He escorted us through the entrance reserved for real VIP’s and somehow convinced his fellow guards not to search our camera bags. "Don’t take picture", he warned. I don’t think he was kidding.
The game started up and the stadium filled to capacity: 30,000. The crowd was quite boisterous but we never had worries – our relatively sedate section was full of diplomats, the soccer coaches themselves, and the upper class of Ethiopian society. About half time, I decided to scan the crowd with my binoculars. To my surprise, Trent and I were absolutely the only "farangs" in the entire stadium. Salt in the pepper shaker, so to speak. Eritrea won the game 2-0.
As dark was rapidly approaching and the guidebooks warn against walking the streets at night, we left the game a few minutes early. Just outside the stadium, there were people waving flags, singing the soccer team theme song, and getting crazy. One guy yelled to Trent: "You! You go to game?" Trent signaled his disappointment with the a thumbs down. This, apparently, was misinterpreted as a slight against Ethiopia: "Fuck you! I kill you!" he screamed. We immediately entered the 14 lanes of traffic and dodged the cars coming at us in order to get away as quickly as possible. In a country where an assault rifle costs less than a movie ticket to see Rambo, you can never be too careful. Outside that stadium is the only time we ever felt the least bit threatened in Ethiopia.
Out of breath and quite shaken, we got back to the hotel just after dark. A note from Dawit was slipped under the door. It was then that we met Eric’s friend, Maria Christina. Christina was Eric’s girlfriend many years back. Italian, tall, good-looking, gourmet chef, world traveler, dive master. We were endeared immediately, especially considering the fact that she muted some of Eric’s more annoying personality traits.
The next day, Monday, we decided to hit the market. This sprawling mass of confusion is by far the biggest market I’ve ever seen. There are hundreds of fruit stalls, spice stalls, butcheries. There are thousands of carpet and cloth booths, metal working areas, leather treating sections. Above all, there are scores of children. Children, children everywhere.
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And all of them want to stare and play with "You! You! You!" "Give me pen!" they chant. "Give birr!" they beg. All of them are adorable, sweet, and without a guardian in sight.
It was here that I made a huge mistake. One particularly beautiful 3 year old grabbed on to my leg and would not let go no matter what I tried. So, I relented and took out a piece of candy from the bag I had purchased earlier in the day. I gave the girl the candy and was immediately overrun by millions of children. Literally the only way I could escape was to launch a handful of the candies into the air. The children scattered, the ladies at the spice stands were not pleased, and Trent and I ran as fast as possible through the market to escape the masses. A few of the children found me shortly thereafter, but I bribed them into silence with a candy or two.
Our guide for the market, a very well spoken twenty-something, took us to a great restaurant right in the middle of the chaos. We chatted, ate, and the locals were amazed when we took the Ethiopian bread, sopped up the chicken and cabbage, and popped it into our greedy mouths. Not many travelers, I imagine, have graced the back room of that restaurant. Indeed, that was the feeling that I got throughout Ethiopia.
Dr. Love (my nickname for Trent after Kampala and the club a few nights earlier) was ready for some "Ladies." It was Monday night, our car with Eric and Maria was leaving early the next morning, yet he was ready for action. Paul, never to be denied a cab fare, was waiting for us outside the hotel. Eric, Maria Christina, Trent and I gathered ourselves and headed to a club. There were about three people in the place, so I took advantage of the situation and after a few beers I began playing with the band. First, I tried the drums. Next, I took over the microphone. Of course, I didn’t know the words to the traditional Ethiopian song, but it made little difference. If you throw a few "ululations" in there every once in a while, you too can sound good. "You do LULULULULU very well," one of the girls working the bar told me. Thankfully, they stopped me before I could play the bass or the harp like instrument.
The next morning, we were off. Our Land Cruiser and driver,
which Dr. Eric had gratefully arranged, arrived an hour late.
Dawit, his brother Steven, and a few of the other child
ren we had made
friends with came to see us off. The car, unfortunately, was not
in exactly prime condition. Our contract for a "new"
car had not been heeded. Instead, we were faced with a early 1980
model Land Cruiser with many, many defects. The most amusing was
the lack of window rollers. There was only one for the entire
vehicle, which meant of course, that to roll up or down your window,
you had to "borrow" the handle from the door to which
it was currently affixed. Our expert driver, Mohammed, had never
driven the route we were planning on taking. We were lost before
we got outside the Addis city limits.