John had already been in Addis for a week by the time we arrived. He was there to start an export business, though he didn’t know what he was exporting. With a rolodex of addresses, he showed up at random businesses looking for the right thing until he found it: shoes. A spritely 28 year old ready to seize the day, John didn’t seem sure about anything, including how to penetrate the global shoe market. But he has a personality you instantly believe in and the lingo of an expert - he could tell you things like two shoes are called a pair - so he was off to a good start.
We got to our hotel around 9pm, dropped our bags off, and followed John to a nearby bar called Oldies on the second story of a small complex at the end of a rocky alley. It was a Tuesday night and the bar was full at 9:00pm which was a pleasant contrast to most places on our trip where bedtime is dictated by the sun. Yet here, while the sun may not necessarily dictate bedtime, it does control the clocks. In fact, it wasn’t 9pm at all; it was 3. In Ethiopia, time ticks differently. Each day is split into two segments - the first begins at 6am, marking sunrise and the start of the day. That is equivalent to 0. After that, each hour is the number of hours away from the start of the day: e.g. 9am is 3, representing the 3rd hour of daylight. The sun sets at 6pm (aka 12), and thus begins the second segment of the day which operates by the same standards. This is the first, but not the last time, we’ll learn that Ethiopia does not buy-in to global standards. I haven’t even mentioned that fact that as we sat at the bar at 9pm (aka 3) not only had we entered a different time zone, but we’d also traveled back in time to 2011. But more on that later.
Whatever time it was, we sat on the balcony at Oldie’s, drinking Walia, listening to early 2000s rap and talking about John’s soon-to-be shoe empire. We ordered a plate of tibs (cubed beef with onion and peppers) and injera. I had been waiting all trip for Ethiopian food and when it arrived I devoured it - alternating dipping my tibs into the accompanying hot red powder and hot red sauce. I could have stayed up all night eating.
We got to our hotel around 9pm, dropped our bags off, and followed John to a nearby bar called Oldies on the second story of a small complex at the end of a rocky alley. It was a Tuesday night and the bar was full at 9:00pm which was a pleasant contrast to most places on our trip where bedtime is dictated by the sun. Yet here, while the sun may not necessarily dictate bedtime, it does control the clocks. In fact, it wasn’t 9pm at all; it was 3. In Ethiopia, time ticks differently. Each day is split into two segments - the first begins at 6am, marking sunrise and the start of the day. That is equivalent to 0. After that, each hour is the number of hours away from the start of the day: e.g. 9am is 3, representing the 3rd hour of daylight. The sun sets at 6pm (aka 12), and thus begins the second segment of the day which operates by the same standards. This is the first, but not the last time, we’ll learn that Ethiopia does not buy-in to global standards. I haven’t even mentioned that fact that as we sat at the bar at 9pm (aka 3) not only had we entered a different time zone, but we’d also traveled back in time to 2011. But more on that later.
Whatever time it was, we sat on the balcony at Oldie’s, drinking Walia, listening to early 2000s rap and talking about John’s soon-to-be shoe empire. We ordered a plate of tibs (cubed beef with onion and peppers) and injera. I had been waiting all trip for Ethiopian food and when it arrived I devoured it - alternating dipping my tibs into the accompanying hot red powder and hot red sauce. I could have stayed up all night eating.
The next day Tom and I walked around our hotel’s neighborhood, Lideta, which John described as “up and coming” and eventually made our way to Lagare on the light rail where we began our stroll up Winston Churchill Avenue, stopping in small stalls to look at the wooden trinkets along the way. An old man ushered us into his small and dark store and we obliged. There was no electricity so we fumbled our way through stacks of old objects and around wooden stools and shields piled high in the corners of the room. He took us through another room, even darker, and with a small flashlight showed us more. It smelled like the mix of dust and moths in a grandparents’ closet.
We continued our stroll when a young man in front of us turned his head and all of a sudden spat without looking, the result of which accidentally landed directly on Tom’s shirt. He immediately came over, profusely apologetic, and desperately tried to clean Tom’s shirt. He had two napkins and was wiping Tom’s arm...then his midriff,,,then the top of his pants - anywhere that might need cleaning, or, as we quickly realized, anywhere that might lead to a wallet. I realized what was happening and alerted Tom. A more courteous option if you ask me would have been to spill coffee or soda, spitting felt like a low-bar even for a pickpocketer. Tom is always judging my cynicism but in hindsight he agreed with my assessment and said he could felt the guy tugging on his pockets. Lucky for Tom I introduced him to skinny jeans in 2016 so his valuables were out of harm's way.
Addis was an assault on the rural calm we had cultivated on the road. It was busy and hard to navigate, noisy and dirty. The skyline was a series of barely built skyscrapers, representing the hope of bigger things to come, but I didn’t feel optimistic. The sidewalks were in a shocking state of disrepair. There were gaping holes everywhere. Fall through a small one and you’re lucky if only your foot sinks. Fall through a larger one and your entire body could be submerged in sewage. We may be 7,200 feet above sea level in Addis, but I could easily be two feet below sidewalk level with one wrong step.
We needed a respite so we stopped at a coffee stand on the side of the road filled with tall men sitting low to the ground on small plastic stools. A man at one table had a fluffy and glossy chunk of foccacia to accompany his coffee. Others munched on some table nuts. I loved watching the men drink from the miniature tea cups - everyone forced into good British manners, pinkies out because there wasn’t enough room on the cups. Tom sipped his coffee and for the first time maybe in his life was defeated. It was strong like mud, thick and bitter. It quickly became clear the large jar of sugar on each table wasn’t decorative. With two big scoops the coffee finally mellowed enough for Tom to finish his small cup. I sat next to him sipping tea which glistened amber red through the clear glass cup.
We continued our stroll when a young man in front of us turned his head and all of a sudden spat without looking, the result of which accidentally landed directly on Tom’s shirt. He immediately came over, profusely apologetic, and desperately tried to clean Tom’s shirt. He had two napkins and was wiping Tom’s arm...then his midriff,,,then the top of his pants - anywhere that might need cleaning, or, as we quickly realized, anywhere that might lead to a wallet. I realized what was happening and alerted Tom. A more courteous option if you ask me would have been to spill coffee or soda, spitting felt like a low-bar even for a pickpocketer. Tom is always judging my cynicism but in hindsight he agreed with my assessment and said he could felt the guy tugging on his pockets. Lucky for Tom I introduced him to skinny jeans in 2016 so his valuables were out of harm's way.
Addis was an assault on the rural calm we had cultivated on the road. It was busy and hard to navigate, noisy and dirty. The skyline was a series of barely built skyscrapers, representing the hope of bigger things to come, but I didn’t feel optimistic. The sidewalks were in a shocking state of disrepair. There were gaping holes everywhere. Fall through a small one and you’re lucky if only your foot sinks. Fall through a larger one and your entire body could be submerged in sewage. We may be 7,200 feet above sea level in Addis, but I could easily be two feet below sidewalk level with one wrong step.
We needed a respite so we stopped at a coffee stand on the side of the road filled with tall men sitting low to the ground on small plastic stools. A man at one table had a fluffy and glossy chunk of foccacia to accompany his coffee. Others munched on some table nuts. I loved watching the men drink from the miniature tea cups - everyone forced into good British manners, pinkies out because there wasn’t enough room on the cups. Tom sipped his coffee and for the first time maybe in his life was defeated. It was strong like mud, thick and bitter. It quickly became clear the large jar of sugar on each table wasn’t decorative. With two big scoops the coffee finally mellowed enough for Tom to finish his small cup. I sat next to him sipping tea which glistened amber red through the clear glass cup.
Rejuvenated from our coffee, we pressed on and continued walking. We made it to the mercato - apparently the largest market in Africa. Blocks and blocks of stalls selling various goods. We were in a shopping vortex and I thought we’d never find our way out of the organized chaos and I hated it. While I could successfully navigate around the people crowding the streets, I was hopeless against the donkeys running full steam ahead down the block, seemingly straight for me. I cowered behind Tom each time. Finally we found our way to the train station and headed back to Lideta to seek shelter in our hotel.
We met John at the hotel and waited for his friend Alex to join us before heading out to dinner. The power was out in the hotel and there was no internet access through the generator so we weren’t sure if and when Alex would show up. Power outages dictated lots of things in Addis - most often for us, it controlled where and when we ate. In just two days, we sat at a nearby hotel bar drinking beers in the romantic glow of a cell phone flashlight; we sat in darkness at a pizza restaurant eating a plate of french fries because it was the only thing they could prepare without electricity; and we sat in our hotel listening to the loud hiss of the generator waiting for Alex.
We finally made it out and to a restaurant with electricity. We ordered a fasting plate (served on Wednesdays and Fridays which are non-meat eating days), a full meat plate, and debating ordering a plate of raw meat called kitfo served with melting spiced butter before settling on the safer option of boneza shiro (a meat laced silky chickpea stew). I wish I could recount every puddle of food on top of our placemat of sour injera: Warmed pickled cabbage, beet salad, a dollop of dhal, a scoop of creamy spinach, curry-like chicken, lentils, a chicken leg, an egg in spicy tomatoey sauce, and some sort of dark sauced beef. To accompany our meal we ordered a bottle of Tej, local honey wine, though due to a communication mishap, the waitress brought us four bottles instead. We compromised and shared two between the four of us. You could taste hints of honey in the Tej though I thought the most prominent flavor profile was gasoline.
The next day we found our way to the red terror museum for a guided tour. I knew very little about Ethiopia’s bloody past until this quick, unexpected and emotional crash course. Our guide, a political prisoner for 8 years under Mengistu's pseudo-communist regime, began the tour at Haile Selassie and finished in present-day Ethiopia. We saw a military helmet from Haile Selassie's rule that said “Ethiopia first” a nationalistic proclamation that hit too close to home. Selassie was overthrown by a revolution led by students and intellectuals who, after their victory, found themselves in a power vacuum that would soon be filled by the military and eventually lead to a silent genocide led by Mengitsu.
We met John at the hotel and waited for his friend Alex to join us before heading out to dinner. The power was out in the hotel and there was no internet access through the generator so we weren’t sure if and when Alex would show up. Power outages dictated lots of things in Addis - most often for us, it controlled where and when we ate. In just two days, we sat at a nearby hotel bar drinking beers in the romantic glow of a cell phone flashlight; we sat in darkness at a pizza restaurant eating a plate of french fries because it was the only thing they could prepare without electricity; and we sat in our hotel listening to the loud hiss of the generator waiting for Alex.
We finally made it out and to a restaurant with electricity. We ordered a fasting plate (served on Wednesdays and Fridays which are non-meat eating days), a full meat plate, and debating ordering a plate of raw meat called kitfo served with melting spiced butter before settling on the safer option of boneza shiro (a meat laced silky chickpea stew). I wish I could recount every puddle of food on top of our placemat of sour injera: Warmed pickled cabbage, beet salad, a dollop of dhal, a scoop of creamy spinach, curry-like chicken, lentils, a chicken leg, an egg in spicy tomatoey sauce, and some sort of dark sauced beef. To accompany our meal we ordered a bottle of Tej, local honey wine, though due to a communication mishap, the waitress brought us four bottles instead. We compromised and shared two between the four of us. You could taste hints of honey in the Tej though I thought the most prominent flavor profile was gasoline.
The next day we found our way to the red terror museum for a guided tour. I knew very little about Ethiopia’s bloody past until this quick, unexpected and emotional crash course. Our guide, a political prisoner for 8 years under Mengistu's pseudo-communist regime, began the tour at Haile Selassie and finished in present-day Ethiopia. We saw a military helmet from Haile Selassie's rule that said “Ethiopia first” a nationalistic proclamation that hit too close to home. Selassie was overthrown by a revolution led by students and intellectuals who, after their victory, found themselves in a power vacuum that would soon be filled by the military and eventually lead to a silent genocide led by Mengitsu.
We were perplexed why we had never heard about an Ethiopian genocide that in one year accounted for half a million deaths. After Mengitsu, Meles came into power and things did not improve. Many argue they only got worse. Our guide’s bitterness and anger revealed a nation still reeling from political crisis. He has suffered through over five consecutive decades of tyrannical political leadership. Having just been in Rwanda, I couldn’t help compare. A substantial section of the Rwandan genocide museum was devoted to the arduous process of peace and reconciliation in the country. Rwanda is far (far) from a utopia, but it felt like the process of grieving and healing, facilitated by the government, was at least a step in the right direction towards ethnonational unification. We asked our guide at the Red Terror museum if Ethiopia had undergone any sort of reconciliation process and he laughed dismissively at the concept - no, they didn’t.
Six month ago, “Dr. Abiy” was democratically elected as prime minister. Everyone - our guide and all the locals we spoke with - seem doe eyed and optimistic about his leadership. Abiy is a man of the people, we were told, brought to office to bring the people of Ethiopia together, stamp out corruption and redistribute wealth and opportunity throughout the country. After a tour through eleven African nations, it’s not shocking that Tom and I were skeptical.
Six month ago, “Dr. Abiy” was democratically elected as prime minister. Everyone - our guide and all the locals we spoke with - seem doe eyed and optimistic about his leadership. Abiy is a man of the people, we were told, brought to office to bring the people of Ethiopia together, stamp out corruption and redistribute wealth and opportunity throughout the country. After a tour through eleven African nations, it’s not shocking that Tom and I were skeptical.