Boarding Pass

Knock, knock. Room service?

There is just one waiter, Surafed, at the Homage Hotel, at the end of Bole road in Addis Ababa – quick to smile with dark eyes that have the sparkling sincerity of youth. I am young and he seems young, but I don't know how old he really is. Many Ethiopians die close to where they are born; primal needs of water, food and shelter trump travel. If you want to see the world, become a pilot for the national airline. For Surafed, the world comes to him along Bole road from the airport.

Americans, Russians, Europeans, all guests at the Homage meet Surafed. He told me about the friends he had in New York. I am from London, but for three weeks the Homage was home. I rarely saw other guests. When I dined in the hotel restaurant, I was always alone. Surafed served my meals while the Premier League beamed silently from a TV on the wall; he supports Manchester United. Saturday is his day off and he wants to show me his town.

Addis is being aggressively developed and Bole road is typical; we set off on foot, with few pavements, only dirt and stones by the side of the road, constantly being shovelled, churned, developed. July opens the rainy season, paths turn to mud and mothers with babies bundled to their backs and dead chickens in their hands wade around large puddles. The buildings surf waves of rubble and earth, rising and falling with the dirty tide crashing on the banks of the road, stony spray splashing every step. A big roundabout outside the Homage keeps Bole road anchored, watched over by the only stationary person along the whole pumping causeway – a soldier in blue camouflage, cradling his assault rifle outside a little hut.

Surafed shows me a cinema for Ethiopian films, takes me to a bar with a singer, keyboard and electric drum loop, we walk and ride buses. After nightfall, we eat at Totot, a traditional Ethiopian restaurant. Waitresses wear white cotton dresses with purple trim, traditional in Northern Ethiopia; on stage, a five-piece band play hand drums and bamboo flutes; dancers stamp out Eskista routines. I drink the local beer, Harar, Surafed enjoys the local vodka. It smells like ethanol and it takes many gulps of Harar to wash away the caustic taste. Together, me and this Addis native, we tear off pieces of injera, Ethiopia's spongy, sourdough flatbread, to grab mouthfuls of sautéed lamb. A man pulls out his date's chair, parents help their children eat, families enjoy the dancers. I am the only exotic thing.