Adiós and Amesege'nallo' Addis

It is an incredibly odd and somewhat exhilarating feeling having a school of dilly teenage girls screaming themselves hoarse at your expense, asking for autographs and blushing uncontrollably as a group of their friends whip out their fancy camera phones to snap pictures of the occasion. Odd…but pretty cool at the same time.

Our two weeks in Addis have cruised by so fast that, a day before our planned departure, we decided to postpone the beginning of my journey on the bike by another day. Having been so immersed in doing pretty much nothing at all, we’ve managed to neglect the important things and have decided that, instead of trying to fix Frank and get packing, we might as well just spend another day being hungover and useless – something we have become quite adept at doing.

Addis has been an amicable host to the Majestic Imperials – an informal and completely unofficial name stolen from a local Reggae house band. The city is full of life, full of character and full of people. Despite the fact that the first road I strolled down wouldn’t have passed as a pathway used by cows en route to the dairy, the infrastructure is half decent and only improving as the skyline is littered with semi-high rise buildings making their way above the mix of old brick buildings and tin shacks, all surrounded by very optimistic scaffolding structures made from Eucalyptus poles somehow joined together in a formation more fragile than the Arsenal defence. Ten thousand kilometres from home, the concept of African Time is as strong as ever as the amount of buildings on their way up outnumbers the builders at work on them.

Nonetheless, construction seems the industry to be in if Antonio and Rihanna are to be believed. The latter is a construction student at Addis University, whom I’ve dubbed Rihanna because she reckons people note a resemblance between her and the Caribbean singer, and because I couldn’t hear what she introduced herself as. She might have actually borne some resemblance had she a full set of white teeth and no faint shadow of a moustache. I must also add that, had the people making the comparisons been as aggressively hit on as I was, they may have been seduced into saying exactly that by the tight leopard print clothing and obvious intent that failed to interest me. Despite requesting a quick Amharic lesson – a language exclusively Ethiopian, of which I know how to say ‘hello’ and ‘thank-you’ (amasege'nallo'), often as a substitute for the other – all she tried to teach me to say was: ‘I like you’.

Matt, Tom and I were enthusiastically invited to join the afore-mentioned Antonio and two construction colleagues under his watch for coffee at our local grocer who operates out of tiny structure backed by a sheet of corrugated iron and shaded by cloth hung up by wooden poles. The young lady’s stock consisted of avo’s, red onions, potatoes, bananas and mangoes – a variety not improved upon by most other vendors in the city. As a side to her questionably fresh foods she sold coffee, heated by little coals, to patrons seated on a choice of three little futons and a couple crates in a set up seen around every corner of Addis. The shot-sized cup of coffee topped any I’d ever had at UCT in my desperate attempts to maintain consciousness in between study sessions, while putting Nescafe to absolute shame.

Antonio’s hospitality was mirrored by many people as we strolled the streets of Addis, visiting the commercial hubs of Piazza and Merkato , the latter of which is Africa’s biggest open-air market and what I can only assume is the local shopping area, visited by only one other ‘Ferengi’ (white foreigner) on the day Jim and I went to check it out. It took us a little while to accept the company and help of locals who jumped at the opportunity to chat and put their English to the test, but once we realised that they were not in it to make a quick buck we were lucky enough to meet some interesting locals – including a group of 3 self-proclaimed ‘Mary J’ salesman – who saved us from hours of hopeless searching and wandering as well as the ever-present tendency for vendors to try and rip us off for every cent we had. It was by no means an unfamiliar sight to be greeted by enthusiastic and appreciative locals as we strolled on by, thanking us for visiting their country and asking us how we were despite not being capable of understanding a word of our response. Every now and again an obviously poor child would badger persistently for money, shouting: “You, You, You, One, One, One”, or simply hold their hands out dangerously near your crotch and follow you hundreds of metres down the street. Although the beggars were no more plentiful than back in Cape Town, they were different in the sense that the majority of them were in the twilight of their long lives or somehow particularly unfortunately deformed.

In general, our stay was a mellow and relaxing one where we lived in Addis for two weeks rather than visited the Ethiopian capital, if that makes any sense at all. If it wasn’t for my glaringly obvious differing skin colour to that of the masses, I would have felt more like a local than a tourist, thanks in no small way to the expat community Kizzy - a connection of Tom’s who has all but given up her home for the entirety of our stay - wasted no time in introducing us to through trips down to the local bar; The Road Runner, and a couple of house parties and braais ending up in various clubs around the city and eventually a series of profound hangovers, least enjoyed by Jim who could hardly eat until well into the afternoon on each occasion. It must be the altitude.

Most of the expats that Kizzy introduced us to were teachers at the same International School that she worked at, predominantly British and all with an interesting story of their own about how their life journey brought them to be teaching in Ethiopia. One of the teachers we met during the second of our 2 Wednesday afternoon football games on the school field invited us to have a chat to one of his classes; an offer we happily accepted.

Having cycled all of 2 kilometres -my first 2kilometres of the trip – to the school on Friday, I had no idea what it was I was going to say thanks to no preparation nor any cycling experiences to speak of. Knowing how talented I am at writing absolute crap, I figured that I may as well speak in the same vein.

Matt and Tom must have had to deliberate at some length to figure out how they would incorporate me into the presentation but, after what was probably a serious brain-wracking session, they decided that my perspective would be of some sort of value; the perspective of the unfit, rather out-of-shape, very average Joe about to embark on a not-so average journey.

What was supposed to be one English class turned out to be an entire day of 3 presentations to a total of 9 classes of kids between the age of 13 and 15 as well as some informal chats to 2 penultimate year Science classes. Jim and I chipped into a brilliant presentation by Matt and Tom that included the 3 videos they have produced and published on their website. To say the classes lapped it up would be an understatement: we were watched from across the road during our lunch break by some of the girls from our first class, asked for signatures and photographs and left every class to students whistling and applauding as the presentations concluded with the screening of the border dance video – a ritual I’m yet to figure out how I can possibly contribute to. The last showing of the video –by which time we were pretty sick of watching – ended in a small but confident Indian chap getting clapped onto the stage to do a moon walk-come break dance gig and an absolutely euphoric class leaving their final lesson of the week.

The euphoria spilled out onto the school yard as we headed out the gates to more applause, screams and shouts of: “I’ll add you on Facebook” behind Frank - Tom’s motorbike-with-sidecar - who took a record low 20 kick-starts to get going. The reception deserved no less than a non-stop 1500km trek straight to Nairobi. Instead, we pulled over 40 metres down the road at a bar to share a few draughts with the teachers before cycling home to have a look at my Accounting Board Exam results: “Richard Brotherton, we are glad to inform you that you have…passed”. The euphoria rolls on!

Tomorrow (03/04) we leave for our next leg to the Kenyan capital, Nairobi. The plan is to stay at a lodge on the foothills of Mount Kenya if we are lucky enough to be invited by a friend of a friend of a cousin of a friend. Other than that, the plans are minimal: we will leave sometime tomorrow morning and aim to reach a destination that we’ll figure out after we choose which road to take. With the school send-off in a mind, a new dodgy haircut and a belly that is yearning for exercise; I cannot wait to hit the road and put some mileage onto the new, knobbly tyres of my noble steed, Nelson.

A night out in Addis...on a Tuesday

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.

African Excursion: Pre-Trip Introduction

FOMO

noun

Fear Of Missing Out. A common, dreaded sickness most common amongst students. Often results in horrible hangovers and/or stories worth telling.

Despite only claiming student status when I’m at a golf course in search of cheaper green fees or filling in questionnaires and feeling awkward about being classified as unemployed, my studentship ended last year in October after my postgrad Accounting exams at UCT, the studies of which culminated in a rather tedious and very frustrating January where I had to study for my first set of board exams rather than spend hours in the sun on golf courses and cricket fields after a rather overcast and dreary December.

Despite my recent, against-all-odds graduation, FOMO is still very much part of my life and has proved to be a significant driving factor in my decision to spend the predominant part of the year cycling from Addis Ababa in Ethiopia to Cape Town. The flights are booked for the 19^th of March and I will be met by two very good friends of mine, Matt Chennells and Thomas James Marshall Perkins (yip, British), who I got to know in my first year of UCT in Rochester – a medical res where I shattered my personal record and swam 4 lengths to relieve me from female-related frustration. The two will have been on the road for around 8 months having left from Tom’s house near London, cycled the width of Europe and in and around the Middle East, skipping around Syria because of the political and social instability. Given their audacious plans and the apparent lack of any desk time or mental exertion, how could I possibly miss out!? FOMO had struck.

I was supposed to be joined on my flight by another UCT mate, Jimmy Owen, who has since decided he can no longer sit around in Natal and wait for March and has decided to leave for Khartoum, Sudan, in mid-February. The reasons for the sudden surge of ants in his pants are most likely due to the lack of an obstacle such as January exams and the distractions of farmers league cricket - the season culminating in Pineapple Week in Port Alfred, an Eastern Cape extravaganza that is only rivalled by Boat Race in the same town, The Fish River Canoe Marathon in Cradock and, of course, Ox-Braai in Bathurst, all must-do’s in the life of any self-respecting South African. Added to the pre-tour calendar is Rhodes O-week, the possibility of an Eastern Cape golf tour of sorts and the allure of a certain blonde...

PwC, the audit firm with which I am contracted to, have been kind enough to delay the start of my articles to 2013 and, as a result, I am doing bugger-all in Haga Haga while my contemporaries slog away 5 days a week wearing Tiger clothes and counting pencils. It goes without saying that, when I do eventually go to Joburg to count things, it will be with some sense of trepidation as I will be going to a city about which I know little to nothing about filled with a stereotype that I do not like – the Ed Hardy adorned ‘boet’ who cannot help but bump his larger shoulder against yours and say: “what you looking at bru?”, or: “Do you have a problem china?”. I have, however, only heard good things from the brave Eastern Cape people who have blazed a trail north and look forward to the challenge.

When one is embroiled in conversation with another, it is inevitable that the query as to the others plans for the year pops up. When speaking to relative strangers – non Facebook friends – they are often taken off guard that I’m not in the infancy of my University career and surprised that I have been out of school since the middle part of the previous decade. I often get the feeling that the schoolkids who find this out are struck with a touch of bitterness and resentment that, using me as a proxy, they will not look more mature so long after their schooldays are over. Disappointment and surprise aside, I often try to skip over the details of the adventure by writing off the coming year as a ‘gap year’ – unless I’m trying to impress, in which case the brave, adventurous, battle-ready explorer in me milks it for all it’s worth!

Moving swiftly on in the conversation, attention is turned toward the make-up of my training regime for the 9000km excursion through Africa. Having done a 3-week cycle slash camping trip of a similar nature in Greece a few years ago with Matt, Tom and three others with relatively little to no training I am reasonably confident that my fitness will increase to acceptable levels during the early days of slow but steady cycling ‘down’ Africa with no need to get my Lance Armstrong on before boarding my plane to Addis. What I did discover in Greece - partly due to a fatal breakdown in communication that resulted in the absence of cycling shorts – was that an individual’s arse is not designed to occupy such a small, oddly shaped area of padding for such significant lengths of time. Although I have not experienced this first hand, my arse felt like it had spent a not-so-good couple of weeks in Polsmoor and I resorted to strapping an Emirates in-flight pillow to my seat with sellotape to allow for some rest between cycling kilometres at a time standing upright on my bicycle. Lesson learnt, I plan to spend a bit of time on the bike to get my rear accustomed to life on the seat and may have to resort to a quick trip to a bank of sorts in case I come back from the trip rather sterile.

It was just over a week ago that I went for my first ‘proper’ cycle – ‘proper’ because I wore a helmet. If you’re not wearing a helmet then it doesn’t count. Kitted to the nines with my 800 zar Dirty Dog sunglasses – the marketing department who named the eyeware have since been shot -, a Camelback, which proved more difficult to draw water from than if I were licking it from a well, cycling shorts and a First Ascent cycling jacket I set off for a 20km cycle in ominous drizzle. As the drizzle turned to the type of rain that would get even the most dormant of farmers a little excited, It wasn’t long before I realised that the glasses were about as handy as a car windscreen made from a frosted shower door and that the jacket was as waterproof as the 3^rd consecutive beach towel my sister got from my Grandmother for Christmas – regardless, a better present than my box of chocolates. It goes without saying that my cycling training has therefore been cut relatively short but I do endeavour to work on that in the weeks that come.

If you are at all interested in the trip, check out Matt and Tom’s outrageously named website: TomAndMattCycle.com. If you’ve managed to read all of this trifle – nice! –you may be interested in reading some of their blog entries but if not their videos and pictures are well worth a bit of time and internet cap! In the event that the website can’t be renamed ‘TomAndMattAndJimmyAndBusterCycle.com’ I will most probably keep sending my writings to this little, faraway corner of the interweb. Apart from taking up the challenge of playing the harmonica –  a feat which, if conquered, will sew hope in the hearts of the most musically inept in a way not unlike the success of Rebecca Black’s one hit wonder ‘Friday’ – and reading whatever books tickle my fancy on my newly-gifted Kindle I will spend a significant amount of my non-cycling time that would otherwise be spent watching TV, learning or jolling lank writing in my leather-bound notebook for my own enjoyment more than anything else, most probably with some sort of warm, locally-brewed poison close at hand.