Waiting at home for our host slash head of our non-existent entertainment committee, Kizzy, to return from her work as a P.E. teacher at a school that educates the children of both the Ethiopian prime minister and Ethiopia’s non-political equivalent of Nelson Mandela, distance runner Haile Gebrselassie, we sank a few 9birr (R4) beers while watching a comedy that served to get us into the mood for a little razzle on Matt's birthday night, The In-Betweeners Movie.
The beers were bought from a little bar down our cobbled road following an argument of principle with the owner about step-pricing spearheaded by Matt and Tom while I spectated from a distance while meeting a friendly local, Omer, enjoying a couple post-work beverages who was quick to point out, with more than a hint of pride, that he had a white German wife waiting for him at home with whom he was eager to visit South Africa with. The beer Omer was drinking had also cost him 9birr, something I only let Matt and Tom know after enjoying the entertainment provided by their now 5-man argument with locals of varying English-speaking capabilities.
Kizzy arrived home with a work colleague, a 26-year-old Londoner called Ralf teaching English at the same school and on the same 2-year contract that he and Kizzy had started in August. Between the two expats it was decided to head off to Guy’s (pronounced as it would be in French), an expat bar somewhere in the city where I had still plenty of work to do to gather my bearings. At this point in time I’ve decided to take not so much of a backseat, but more of a spot in the boot when it comes to decision-making, so going with the flow is the name of the game at the moment.
A couple 15birr draughts in the small but quaint pub hosting a split of expat men and locals resulted in a decision being made that our next destination would be the Zebra Grill for a supper that Matt would stand us to on behalf of his folks as a generous birthday gesture. The criteria given to Kizzy by Matt in selecting the restaurant was that it needed to offer some decent meat, a food-type that has become somewhat of a luxury for my fellow adventurers. The order was split between spicy beef steak, lamb stir-fry (my choice) and chicken ‘kebob’. For a bunch of chaps that ate meat maybe every two weeks it didn’t have to do a lot to hit the spot. Not unsurprisingly, it was by no means a Hussar Grill or even Spur standard meal but hit the spot it did. For an Eastern Cape fellow whose diet consists of foodstuffs other than meat and cheese only to make my plate look colourful, there is some adjusting to be done!
Kizzy and Ralf left us after supper with the suggestion of going to Black Rose for cocktails before heading out on the town. Having arrived outside our destination in our blue-and-white taxi, the rear seat of which could only be accessed through one door and the window requiring constant pressing against to avoid incessant and conversation-breaking rattling, an unenviable task that I fulfilled, we decided to reassess our choice of drinking hole considering that it seemed particularly empty and we planned to visit the Black Rose on Thursday for a live jazz evening regardless of the way the night turned out.
Our taxi driver, Ziggy, assured us that there was another good spot *just down the road* - the reason for the use of stars rather than quotations was because he didn’t say ‘just down the road’ as much as he signalled it. Whether it was a case of being lost in translation or a sly move on behalf of a local looking to exploit the foreign white man, I can say with absolute confidence that it will not be the last case in point. Our new destination, Tam-Tams, was so far away I was sure we were heading to another city. On our eventual arrival we were frisked by the doorman before being ushered down a tunnel of stairs lit by bright, white fairy-lights toward a small crowd of people at the bottom of the stairs. What we thought might be a good sign of night life turned out to be a host of identically dressed male and female employees whose function was a complete mystery to us as they milled around the end of the staircase with no apparent purpose for the rest of the night. The self-labelled African bar was dark and loud, extensively decorated to theme and based around a large, square dance floor with a huge illuminated outline of Africa watching over the would-be party goers. I say would-be party goers as there were none, apart from the four of us who were not close to being sufficiently inebriated to make a fool of ourselves on the dance floor in front of the purposeless staff and the sole other patron, a man seemingly showing off his social stature by wearing a far-from-impressive white suit.
The dance floor was surrounded by three little enclaves, two of which were bars selling beer at 25birr, the third a lounging area where we stationed ourselves on couches and futons. Due to the place being as empty as Tin Roof on a Sunday morning or Tantra on any night of the week, we retracted our mission from an all-out jol to a casual evening of enjoying an Ethiopian experience. As we tucked into our second and last beer, a troupe of dancers walked past from the staff rooms behind us, scantily clad in a skirt that would be no more than an average man’s knee guard and a layer of matching, lipstick red material around there chest.
The 5 women, 4 of which should think twice about wearing so little clothing, went about their job with a dance that appeared about as difficult and authentically African as a primary school dance number in a production of the Lion King. Despite this, our sleazily dressed and previously judged fellow customer moved from his seat at the bar and pulled up a chair no more than two metres directly in front of the dancers. His drooling increased dramatically as four of the five dancers trudged off to the side of the floor and proceeded to do the standard grade-7-white-guy-trying-not-to-look-like-a-chop-or loser dance not 30cm in front of a huge mirror, while the remaining dancer set off on a solo dance that might have been an audition for a booth at Mavericks in Cape Town. The white suit crept even closer when the first solo dancer was replaced by the second who proceeded to turn around and vibrate her buttocks in the face of the suit before bending down and literally dry-humping the shit out of the dance floor. As we tried desperately to seem interested in the decorations and hold a conversation that would have been more audible had it taken place on a hang-glider we were saved by the probable ineptitude of the remaining three dancers as they called it quits after watching their reflections bob to the African tunes for 10 or so minutes.
Having finished our beers we headed off before the dancers returned from their change room to avoid being asked to pay for a performance we had not asked for nor been particularly impressed by and called time on our first night out in Addis. Although it was by no means a party on the scale we had imagined after watching a film about four awkward, English high-school leavers comically navigate their Spanish equivalent of Plett Rage, it was an entertaining and successful start to a trip that will no doubt take a different tone the moment we leave Addis and set off for wherever our next destination is whenever it is we decide we’ve had enough of the Ethiopian capital. Plans are overrated.
