At 7:18 am local time, I caught my first glimpse of Ethiopia through the airplane window. At 7:21 am, we touched down. By 8 am, I’d filled out my entry card, had my passport and visa stamped, re-claimed my luggage and had it x-rayed through customs.
Walking past the guards dressed in blue camouflage and through the open sliding doors, I had that strange feeling of nervousness and excitement. The small crowd of people waiting for loved ones or pick-ups was the same as in any other airport I’ve ever flown through. Turning right through the gauntlet, I scanned the signs for my name, or Mercy Corps. Neither was visible. Perhaps I should have turned left, I thought. What to do next? I walked behind the crowd, taxi drivers and hotel agents offering me a ride or a hotel, if I needed it. I’m waiting for someone, I insisted. I repositioned myself against the wall facing the crowd of people opposite to where I’d come out. Perhaps I would see my name here. Still nothing.
After an hour I decided that maybe I should find an information desk and ask them to announce Mercy Corps over the speakers, which were constantly droning on with gate and passenger announcements. Through broken English, the lady at the counter told me she couldn’t help. No announce. What next, I thought again. I found a bench and pulled out my laptop. I’d have to open my email and see if I had some contact information for someone with me. Of course, I hadn’t thought to print any of this out before leaving home. I found the email from Amrote, who had booked my ticket, with her work and mobile number along the name of our assistant facility manager who had been assigned to pick me up.
I went back to my spot on the wall, in case someone had shown up with a sign for me. I tried unsuccessfully to get through to her from my Danish mobile… I was being prompted to include the area code. Strange I thought, when I was using the full phone number including the country code.
At 9:17 am, I finally found the right combination of zeros in front of Amrote and her mobile number was ringing. No answer. I waited against the wall, scanning the crowd of people every so often. No, I wasn’t on the Frankfurt flight, I told several people who were waiting to pick up hotel guests. London, I told them. Finally my phone rang… but the connection was bad and I kept hearing an echo of myself. The person on the other end hung up. I fumbled to find the number and called back.
It’s Miriam, I said. Yeah, I’ve arrived and I was just wondering who I should be looking for at the airport.
On the other end, Amrote (this was when I discovered Amrote is female, not knowing the language or culture, this wasn’t immediately apparent to me through our email correspondence) told me that the Gelawdoes should be picking me up and that he’d have a Mercy Corps sign with him.
Great, I said. Reassured that someone was indeed picking me up, I left my spot on the wall and found spot along the long glass wall that ran across the entire terminal building. Outside were flowers and mountains and the hint of a busy city. I pulled out the bottle of water I’d bought at the airport in London, a bag of Bassett’s Allsorts and the cheddar cheese and crackers I’d saved from dinner in the airplane. Sitting on the edge of my luggage trolley, I had breakfast.
An hour later, after sending an “the eagle has landed” sms home to my loved ones, I decided maybe I should text Amrote, in case Gelawdoes was here, but couldn’t find me. I also made a little sign on the back of a piece of paper I had laying around in my backpack. Mercy Corps, I wrote in block letters filled in with shading from the blue pen I’d nicked while I was filling out my Entry to Ethiopia card at Immigration. Underneath I wrote Gelawdoes name, just in case.
At 10:19 am, Amrote called me back. Are you still at the airport, she asked. Yes, I said. After apologizing for the confusion, she assured me that she’d get in touch with Gelawdoes and see what was going on.
I spotted a free chair on the row of benches further down in the terminal and decided that sitting on the edge of my luggage cart was overrated. Relocated and significantly more comfortable, I pulled out the in-flight magazine from Ethiopian Airlines and found the Sudoku page. An hour later, an apologetic Gelawdoes found me mid in my puzzle. He had been prepared to pick me up at 7:45 pm and had been sleeping when Amrote called to see what was going on.
Soon we were throwing my luggage into the back of Mercy Corps pick-up, which had our logo and a sticker of an ak-47 with a line though it, like a non-smoking sign but with a machine gun instead of a cigarette. I was told to turn the key when given the signal; a loose connection to the battery makes starting the truck a two-person job.
On the way to my “home” in Addis, I was quickly shown the location of the Mercy Corps office. On the way there, we pulled up to a little roadside kiosk and honked. A boy came out and Galewdoes gave him a cell phone and spoke to him in Amharic. We drove on the office compound at the end of the road and turned around. On the way back we pulled up to the kiosk again and honked. The boy came out with phone again. Re-filled with credit, Galewdoes told me, and handed me the phone.
It was around noon when Galewdoes left me at the guesthouse and we he’d pick me up around 8:15 the next morning. At home, I took stock of my surroundings, a smallish room with a green linoleum tiled floor. A ¾ bed, two night stands, a little table with a small tv perched on it and a small wardrobe made up the furnishings. The attached bathroom had a shower, sink and toilet, everything I needed. I washed my face, unpacked a few things and decided that a nap would be in order. After the seven and a half hour flight and four hours waiting in the airport, I was exhausted. I crawled under the covers and set my alarm clock for 3 pm.
After waking up I explored the guesthouse, a clean, cool building with white granite steps leading you inside. The house had four floors and a rooftop terrace overlooking the corrugated tin roofs of the neighbouring houses and the lush green foliage of the surrounding compounds. From the roof you can see 360 degrees around the city neighbourhood. Here I oriented myself to the direction we came and major roads in sight.
I decided to take a walk down to the big road I could see just meters from the lane the guesthouse is on. Unsure of where to eat or whether there was food available at the guesthouse, I walked up the road and found a small supermarket. I bought a jar of peanut butter, some papaya jam, some buns and toothpaste, which I’d forgotten to buy in the airport. I spotted a fruit stand in the parking lots and bought a half-pound of bananas. Not the most exciting first excursion, but baby steps I thought, and I was getting hungry.
Back at the guesthouse I ripped apart a bun and spread peanut butter and jam on it with the spoon I’d saved from the airplane. I knew there was a reason I’d stuffed the little plastic wrapped spoon and wet naps in my backpack last night. I also made one with peanut butter and banana and then headed up to the rooftop with my camera.
I took a few photos and sat against a wall facing the sun. The low 20’s ˚C weather felt cooler than I’d expected it and I kept my cardigan on, letting the sun bake on my face with closed eyes.
Back in the room, I turned on the small television and quickly found BBC world.
I watched the news updates for a while before the signal was lost. The low rumble of thunder in the background warned of a coming storm. I turned off the tv and unplugged my computer and phone which were charging. By 7 pm it was completely dark outside and the rain was falling in a heavy downpour, with the sound of steady thunder punctuated by lightning flashing across the sky.
I pulled my summer duvet from my suitcase. I’d packed it even though it seemed like a silly impulse at home. I picked up The New Yorker, propped myself up against the headboard of the bed, wrapped myself in my duvet and read a few of the stories. Around 8:30 pm I started feeling drowsy again. After 12 hours in Addis, I was ready for bed. I set my alarm to 7 am and turned off the lights.
I woke up at 3:30 am and turned on the light. I plugged the tv back in and made myself a peanut butter sandwich. I was freezing in just a t-shirt, and covered myself with the blanket from the bed. After about 40 minutes, I crawled back into bed with goose bumps. Finding sleep was hard but when I woke up to the alarm clock, I felt as if I’d slept for ages.
I turned on the shower and let it run, hoping for hot water. Yesterday when I’d tried, it had been cold, and I decided I could wait. I edged my way into a less-than-lukewarm shower and lathered up. Eventually the hot water came and the goose bumps disappeared. Had I been at home, I could have been tempted to stand under the warm water for a good 15 minutes or longer, but mindful of my surroundings, I cut my pleasure short. The shower curtain was apparently more for show than anything else, and threatened several times to collapse on me. After finding the delicate balance it was “secured” again. I dried off, pulled on some causal clothes, a pair of black Capri pants and a red kurti I inherited from one of my Indian friends in Hamburg. I threw on my flip-flops and cardigan and went downstairs for breakfast.
I had ordered two boiled eggs the night before. In the lounge I grabbed a cup of coffee, some orange juice and two slices of bread with jam. From a table for four, I watched Steven Sakour interview the British foreign minister over a cup of strong black coffee. The receptionist assured me that my eggs were on their way. Eventually, after another cup of coffee my eggs turned up, three of them. I ate them with bread and decided it was only orange juice because of its colour.
At 8:14 Gelawdoes rang up to my room. I had brushed my teeth and was packing my backpack with my computer and cell phones. It’s 11:36 am on March 3, 2010. I’m sharing the long conference room table with a colleague, who has been in and out of the office today trying to take care of this work permit. Ethiopian by birth, he’s lived in the US and came back a few months ago. Originally he was headed to Liberia on a peace-building project with another organization, but when the contract he’s on with Mercy Corps showed up, he thought, there is less shooting here. His tip on work permit matters: avoid room 12 at the immigration office. Duly noted.
On Saturday I’m flying to Dire Dawa, where I’ll be living. On Sunday I’ll be joining the team from the Dire Dawa office and heading to Jigjiga for a value chain assessment workshop along with other members of the RAIN project. Until then I’ll be here in Addis, getting some orientation and trying to connect to the internet.
