“The Newcomer” (or “Why I will Never Walk Around the Main Road of Fitche Wearing Headphones EVER Again!”)

I would not generally describe myself as a complacent person when it comes to my surroundings. In fact, most times I could be described as a pessimist at worst (though I prefer pragmatist) or cautiously optimistic at best. But let’s just face it; after you’ve given conventional wisdom the proverbial finger hundreds of times without incident, even the most pessimistic pragmatists may find themselves throwing all caution to the wind. After all, would you generally consider it advisable to obliviously stroll around blasting your headphones on a busy main road in the Horn of Africa frequented by people who are probably the craziest drivers in the world and accompanied by rural farmers with Ak-47s who have never seen you before? A year ago, my answer would have been no; however, as I said before, I have done this hundreds of times by now. 

I was walking over on the main road, known here as “Commando Road,” which is one of two places in town that has an ATM and ketchup. It was around 9:00 in the morning and a market day. Most times I would avoid this side of town on market days, as it is full of strangers coming from the rural areas who are there to sell their wares, and on the occasions that I walk by, shout “MONEY, MONEY” or “CHINA, CHINA!” It happens to everyone, and wouldn’t you believe that even after a year it still pisses me off? Anyway, that’s what headphones are for.

I had just finished my shopping, and I had my headphones on as I was walking up the main road to my favorite shortcut that allows me to bypass all of the usual market day harassment. Everything seemed normal as I passed all of the shops and the gas station to my left, only this time, as I looked towards the gas station, I saw a man frantically gesturing at me. This still isn’t all that unusual as strangers often do this to one of Fitche’s five known white people in town (me). However, it got a little weirder as suddenly three other guys across the street started gesturing at me, followed by two more, then three, and finally five more. However, there I am, this oblivious dumbass with more headphones than sense just walking along.

After giving it another moment of thought I finally felt compelled to turn around where I was greeted by a sight that had certainly found a wormhole out of my worst nightmares and made its way into my reality just 6 feet behind me.  I am not sure what’s scarier, the fact that she was charging at me with a knife, or the fact that she looked like an extra from “The Walking Dead” with her flushed, white eyes, saggy skin and long, frizzy hair, not to mention the deranged look on her face. I mean, really, I don’t want to be chased by anyone with a knife, but I especially don’t want to be chased by anyone with a knife that looks like THAT!

I feel like now is as good a time as any to mention that as this unfolded I was listening to Frank Sinatra’s “Come Fly With Me.” You know how movie directors sometimes lay ironic and inappropriate music over a tense scene in a film? This was kind of like that only this was ACTUALLY HAPPENING!

Even as I ascertained that she had a knife and was coming right for me, I didn’t immediately start running. I am a fast walker, and this time I was already walking particularly fast before I noticed her. Even with my heart pounding out of my chest and the utter disbelief that I felt, I was reasonably satisfied that she couldn’t even out-walk me and just continued walking fast while looking behind me. I was also afraid that running might provoke her into a real chase. And if I had seen this character chasing me for real, I think I might have logged Peace Corps Ethiopia’s first accident in the pants that couldn’t be treated with antibiotics.

After about 10 seconds when I was certain that I wasn’t in any more danger than my ignorance had already put me in, my pure and utter terror turned into rage.  At this point I got the gumption to stop in my tracks, remove my sunglasses and stare her down. I then proceeded to point at her, and to my surprise she also stopped dead in her tracks. She then hissed at me, yes, hissed, picked up a rock and threw it at me (missing of course), turned around and walked away. I should have felt very accomplished that I had repelled this abhorrent apparition, but actually I was literally shaking afterwards.

I have since described this situation to a few colleagues who frequent this side of town, both of which have said that they had seen her before walking around with an umbrella at night and shouting at random people.  The explanation that I got was that some people from the rural areas probably dropped her off on Commando Road, as is often done to crazy people whose families don’t want to deal with them anymore.  Today, when I went into the bank to pick up my new ATM card, I told the guys that I was avoiding the bank on Commando from now on due to the latest drama, to which that man replied “Ahh, yes I know of her, she is a newcomer in Fitche.”

-Donovan

All Aboard the Fail-Bus!

Somehow, I managed to go an entire year at site without ever having to ride a mini-bus (mini-van with extra seats added that can easily hold 24 sardine-ified people) on my lonesome.  Either I’ve traveled with Donovan or with other people from my surrounding area.  This last weekend, I managed to break that streak.  Donovan had been in Addis for most of the week doing things with VAC, a Peace Corps committee that he’s now on, and I decided it would be fun to drop down and visit him for the weekend.

Here is the saga of my single most eventful bus ride to date!

Fail-Bus Moment #1

I was on the bus, its second passenger at about 6:40 AM on Saturday.  We drove around Fitche for over an hour trying to pick up passengers.  After an hour, there were 4 passengers in the bus, myself included.  They finally decided, “Eh, might as well try driving out of town and picking people up on the side of the road.” Why didn’t they come to that conclusion a half-hour and decent amount of gas before then?  Your guess is as good as mine.

Fail-Bus Moment #2

Halfway to Addis, we pulled over in the freaking middle of nowhere and everyone else got off the bus.  It’s only a 3-ish hour trip, and I’ve never been on a bus that had to take a pit stop.  Hmm, odd.  Then I notice that they’re taking the tire off of the bus. 

“Oh, they must have blown a tire on that last speed bump.  That’s a first for me.  Hmm, I would have expected a popped tire to result in more noise and a scary, bumpy stop.  Oh well,” I thought to myself as I quickly called Donovan to tell him why I was running so late and then put my headphones back on.

That’s when I noticed that A) the tire was fine and B) somebody was banging on the undercarriage of the car with a wrench.  Oh boy.  After about 40 minutes of that, they decide that the bus is not going anywhere and they start trying to flag down busses with empty seats to load us into.  Of course, all the men who were on the bus push their way into the first one that stops, nearly knocking over a pregnant woman who was traveling with her toddler and leaving me stuck with all of the other ladies waiting for yet another bus.

Fail-Bus Moment #3

Knowing that I should get a refund to pay the rest of my way to Addis, I go up to the redat (guy who handles the money and yells the bus’s final destination out the window), and politely ask for my money back.  I try it in Afan Oromo.  Nothing.  I try it in Amharic.  Nothing.  I try it in the international language of me looking ticked, holding my hand out, and saying, “Money, Quarshii, Birri, ama,” while angrily slapping my own upturned palm.  Again, nothing.  He pretends not to understand a word I’m saying while offering begrudging refunds to the few ladies left with me.

Fail-Bus Moment #4

His biggest failure was assuming that I was sweetly going to drop it and let him keep my money.  The second that I got into my next bus, the driver asked me where my fare was.  I informed him and the new redat that the last redat was a “hattu/lebe” (thief) and would not give it back to me, a sentiment that I managed to communicate entirely in local language.  The driver, who seemed rather endeared by the impressive two sentences that I’d said in Afan Oromo, yelled something that I could not understand at his redat.  Queue the new redat, named Abu, leaping out of the car, chasing the first redat and nearly punching him over the matter of 20 Birr (a little less than $1).  The bad redat finally gave up 20 Birr to the new one, at which point I had to fork over an extra 5 Birr that he “hadn’t had.”  It was well worth the 25 cents to nearly see that guy get decked!

The rest of my ride into Addis was very pleasant.  I got to sit up front with the driver and had a very nice conversation with him and another guy that we picked up one stop after I got on.  All told, my normal 3-ish hour ride took me a little over 6 hours, and I don’t think I’ll be riding the bus solo again any time soon!

Tie Dye Time!