It’s been awhile. You could tell me that I’ve tafash-ed, that I’ve disappeared. I expect it from every friend I run into in the street after my 3-week absence and I roll off my list of cities that describe my January travels: Addis, Ambo, Debre Birhan, Hawassa, Jimma, Bahir Dar. Usually their eyes glaze over after I name the 2nd city they’ve never been to. “Oh, you like to travel, huh,” is a common conclusion. You funny tourists. Are you going to Lalibela or Axum? Because white person in Ethiopia = free money, and white person traveling in Ethiopia = tourist. Like when I walk into the Bahir Dar bus station and am herded to the bus going to Gondar – the next stop on the sightseeing loop.
“Aye! Izzi inoralahu!” ‘I live here (stop assuming I’m a tourist; leave me alone)!’
Except sometimes I need Ethiopians to look out for me. It’s an unfair request that I make – leave me alone in all circumstances, except when I need you to help me. Then remember that I’m a helpless ferenji. Fortunately there’s a friendly, concerned citizen for every rude, harassing one. Again, it’s unfair of me to forget this ratio but I do. See me on the bus to Addis. My guard is up, having just dealt with gangs of bus station men. There are benches of free seats but a man chooses to sit next to me. “Is this seat free?” His English isn’t bad but I don’t want to fall for that trap; I silently scoot over.
The sun is still rising and the night’s cold air blasts us through my window, which doesn’t close properly. The side sounds like it’s held together by a piece of twine; my survival plan is to surf the seat in front of me should the bus break apart. The man leans behind me to try to close the window. “Oh, it doesn’t work,” he laughs. “Aw, yibirdal,” I reply in Amharic. I appreciate that he didn’t try to pick my pocket or slide across my chest. And his English is good. Maybe he can help me avoid the Mercato at the end of this bus ride.
As it turns out, I had met one of his colleagues at the international school in Addis. How I keep meeting people on buses who know my friends is a subject for another blog post, come to think of it.
And so I have a new friend in Addis who not only saved me from certain doom in Mercato, but also accompanied me on the 3 line taxis to Sarbet. “But you don’t know how much they cost,” he protested when I thanked him, “and you’d get lost!”
