Alone in Addis

It’s not often along our travels that the three of us have been separated, simply because Africa is a place where it may take months to find each other again. In our case with our lack of phones etc. perhaps never. Thus, it is quite a different feeling when you’re suddenly left gallivanting around a big city like Addis all by yourself:

Shouts of “you, you” are used to grab my attention, but I pull the ‘No English card’ and continue along my way. Beggars crowd the already packed streets, usually displaying some physical ailment or religious placard. An elderly man lies completely naked, blackened by the sun ahead of me. People step over and around him as they navigate their way through the obstacle course of bodies. Something about it shocks me. Seeing a man completely degraded and humiliated through poverty. Stripped bare, not only of his clothes but also his dignity.

A little girl runs up to me, tattoos along her arms and ankles, up her neck and on her forehead; family markings. She kisses my hand like a royal courtier. Her blinking eyes, sparkling like pools in the centre of her grubby face, look up at me; “money, money”.

I jump into a taxi, my directions home written on my arm so I can’t get lost. Addis is a huge city; 3.3 million people in a census done way back in 2007, divided into sub cities because of its size. Standing in a line for a Taxi is a non-existent practice, so I feel like I’ve won a game of ‘beach flags’ as I sit in my seat. Still having my wallet is also a bonus as pick pockets thrive in the mad scramble for taxis.

My first neighbour is ‘Small Mike’; a once public, now private taxi driver. He speaks with a ridiculously strong American accent, something I have found comical throughout the trip. English accents in Africa reflect their teachers, whether it be American TV or the British Learning Institute. Hence, one can find oneself in the middle of Africa speaking to someone with a classy British accent or an extremely twangy American one.

I learn how he is unhappy with Ethiopia and Addis in particular, sadly turned against his own country because of his brothers comfy lives in Washington and Chicago. He jumps off saying “if you ever need anything friend, come find me at Jupiter Hotel. Ask for small Mike, that’s me. They call me Small Mike because there’s another Mike. He’s big!”

My next partner is a middle aged man in smart pants and a pink pin striped collared shirt fitted tightly around his aging belly. He greets me asking if I’ve come to Addis for the African Unions 50^th Anniversary or if I’m just a tourist. He seems very interested in my travels as we talk about our journey and the progress, or lack thereof, in Africa. Inevitably he ask where I’m from; standard conversation in Africa. Mostly, Africans can’t believe we’re from Africa because we’re white and conversations usually go something like this:

Where are you from?
South Africa
But where do you live?
I live in South Africa
But where are you actually from?
No, I’m from South Africa
 Yes, but where are you born?
In South Africa, I am South African, that is my country!
So where are your parents from?
They are from South Africa (sensing the trend) and so are their parents and their parents and their parents and their parents.
So you are British or American?
No I don’t know. I think I have some Scottish, from my dad. My mom is maybe Irish, but I’m not sure, I know her dad grew up in India, but as long as I know I am African,  I’m from South Africa. 

Still unsure of my “Africaness” and even more sceptical of my lack of knowledge of my heritage, he accepts my answer, clearly unsatisfied.

I ask my standard questions and find out he is 46 years old, married for seventeen years and has two daughters of three and nine. Conversation dries up slightly until the next favourite question is dragged out: “Christian?” We talk about religion and churches in Ethiopia as well as our plan to perhaps try meet my parents in India. He was a minister in Lebanon for twelve years, returning to Addis to get his carpet business going and make some money. He says he’s returning to Lebanon as soon as his business is up and running. Our budding friendship is interrupted as he jumps off at our next stop. He wishes me well as I send greetings to his family and wish him luck in his business venture.

I have no partner for a while; my hoarse fluey throat appreciates the break and I stretch out my legs letting the blood tingle down to my toes as I enjoy the space. It doesn’t last long as the taxi is soon crowded again. Another partner, but this time no convo. His lack of English and my lack of Amharic leaves us at his greeting of “Salaam” and my reply of “Salaamno” and a smile.

This time I hop off first. I pass the familiar fruit sellers and the familiar shop keepers. Along the cobblestone path, past the kids who pull tongues at us daily, up the winding stairs and along the concrete corridor to the red door of the flat we’re all staying in. It’s locked; I’m home first. I lean on the balcony that overlooks the green courtyard in which all the boys play soccer, admiring the skill they display in their cumbersome 'crocs', I wait for the key bearer to return.