Alone in Addis

Shouts grab my attention. “You! You!” Beggars crowd the streets, displaying their physical ailments and religious placards. An elderly man lies completely naked ahead of me, blackened by the sun. 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.

Homemade scaffoldings hang over unfinished high rises like tablecloths draping a city. My slop breaks. “Queeck feex sah, queeck feex sah. Only five Birr”. Balancing on one leg like a flamingo as my slop is sowed together with a needle and thread, a little girl runs up to me with 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 green 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. 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’. He speaks with a strong American accent, and is sadly turned against his own country because of his brothers’ comfy lives in Chicago. Jumping off he says, “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’s been in Lebanon for 12 years as a minister. He's interesting, but our budding friendship is interrupted as he jumps off at our next stop.

I have no partner for a while, which is OK. I appreciate the break, and stretch my legs out. Blood tingles down to my toes. But the space is short-lived. People pile into the taxi again. This time no convo. My companion’s lack of English and my lack of Amharic leaves us at ‘Salaam’ and ‘Salaam noh’. Then smiles.

It’s my turn to hop off, and I pass the familiar fruit sellers and shop keepers. Along the cobblestone path, past the kids who pull tongues at me, up the winding stairs and along the concrete corridor to the red door. My host’s flat is locked, I’m home first. Nothing to do but wait.