* It is recommended that you scan over the Author’s Note before continuing. This will add a level of context that will be important throughout the following series.
“So one should pass through this tiny fragment of time in tune with nature, and leave it gladly, as an olive might fall when ripe, blessing the earth which bore it and grateful to the tree which gave it growth.” – Marcus.
Day 1.
I was in the middle of a deep but confusing dialogue with Wes Anderson’s Concierge when things took an uneasy turn. We were standing in the atrium of the Grand Budapest when a motionless Gustav squinted at me and began muttering something in a voice that was not his own. The voice belonged to a woman. It was soft and feminine and after focusing on the muttering I deciphered that he was repeatedly saying ‘sir’ in a questionable tone. I awoke abruptly in a sweaty state of sheer confusion and panic to find an airhostess standing over me, somewhere thousands of feet above Stuttgart. For a brief period I was totally ignorant of where I was or indeed what was going on. “Christ!” I thought. “They’ve found me. I thought the suite of burners and a flight to Africa would buy me time, but they’ve got me… It wasn’t me man, it was Downey! I just met the guy in Findlaters… swear to god!” What had great potential to blossom into a traumatically embarrassing moment was salvaged, as my brain was not yet at a functional capacity capable of rendering my thoughts into words. Before my panic got the better of me I realized the truth in what was happening. The Ethiopian Airlines hostess was simply trying to offer me the courtesy dinner of either fish or chicken to which I chose the latter. Having previously indulged solely in Ryanair paninis, I was pleasantly surprised when she presented a ceramic tray packed tightly with individually wrapped assortments, including an undefined piece of what I believed to be chicken, a rice and pea side dish, a pasta and pepper starter, a small plump pastry wrapped in plastic and a chocolate brownie dessert. The meal topped anything I had previously consumed above 40,000 feet, although I was slightly unsettled by the snow white colouring of the butter. As she passed me the meal she asked if I wanted a drink, but unfortunately my brain was not yet ready to process such a complex theorem. Freyo, the Ethiopian gentleman two seats to my right, had been handed a small black and gold can which I assumed to be beer, so my vegetated brain signaled toward the can and managed to sew together a somewhat comprehensive request. It was indeed a beer, an Ethiopian lager called Habesha, and it was one of the finest drinks I’ve ever had.
We were somewhere over Stuttgart, Germany, on Ethiopian Airlines flight 505 from Los Angeles to Addis Ababa. The flight had stopped in Dublin to refuel, which provided those travelling to Ethiopia from Ireland – people like us – a convenient direct flight. It was my first time on a 787 and the trip would be my first time in Africa.
I was travelling with my cousins who had adopted a young boy from northern Ethiopia some time ago. They were going as a family to see the world from which he came, and I was going out of pure and uncensored curiosity. We boarded at about 6:30pm, but the flight was delayed and we sat on the tarmac limbo for the guts of an hour. It was a fine vessel indeed. Upon boarding we were greeted by an Ethiopian air hostess draped in full tradition outfit – a baggy white woven gown with green, red and yellow lining and a sash of the same colours. The plane was spacious and as we boarded it was clear that a number of people had departed the flight in Dublin. Those who remained on the flight – going the whole way to Addis – were mostly African and bar a few the majority were in a deep sleep. If you’re familiar with the layout of a 787, you’ll know that there are three rows of three seats, one on each side and one down the middle, separated by two isles. I made my way through the cabin and came across short, greyed haired Ethiopian man wearing a casual suit sitting in my seat. Usually in this situation I would happily relocate to an unoccupied seat and leave the man be, but she was filling fast and was already close to maximum capacity. I politely informed the man of the situation and although seemingly disappointed – which one would expectantly be after flying eleven hours and having to move seat – he disappeared into the next cabin in search of an unwanted seat.
The craft had plenty of legroom, beautiful but clearly well-worn yellow and green embroidered seat covers and interactive screens for every passenger with a surprisingly plentiful library of movies, TV shows and a flight scanner. It also contained a handful of games to pass the time and nurse your technology withdrawal. Before takeoff I tried my hand at a few games of blackjack. The game provides users with 1000 credits to bet with as you see fit, and before the plane had even begun taxiing I had lost over 400. Three hands in a row it got a jack and an ace. “Curse you!” I muttered as I scurried out of the virtual gambling room on the back of the chair.
On the subject of gambling, I was sat two seats away from an older Ethiopian gentleman who had spent the past 22 years of his life working in Las Vegas. At a guess I’d have said he was around his late 50s. He wore a black turn-of-the-century style suit with bland grey checkers and a dull red tie, loosened at the neck. It looked quite lived in and was the kind of suit one would expect to see worn by a finance minister from Dundalk in the late 80s, faded by time and disappointment and saturated with second hand smoke. His name was Freyo (likely spelled wrong) and when I had initially commandeered my seat from the stowaway, Freyo had a courtesy blanket draped over his head, completely masking his identity. The hustle and chatter of the new passengers clearly disturbed his slumber and he began to emerge as I was getting settled in. He noticed my presence and while the plane prepared for take-off we chatted together about Dublin. He had never been, and I advised him to keep it that way. “It’s a weird place,” I told him. “Nobody here really likes the fact that they’re Irish, but they’ll be the first to call you out if you say anything negative about it.” He shrugged, and after some brief non-versation about the weather and economics we slumped back into our chairs.
I started browsing through the collection of movies available and pondered between The Grand Budapest Hotel or Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid. During this difficult negotiation I noticed in my peripheral that Freyo was struggling to use his monitor. The touch screen interface had stopped working, so I informed him that he could use the buttons on his arm rest to manually navigate the screen. Although it took him longer than it should have, he got the hang of it and was very grateful. (Later into flight I would notice him getting frustrated again as the touch screen was not working, but was no longer attempting to use the buttons. I had done all I could. He was on his own now.) I had settled on Wes Anderson’s Grand Budapest Hotel, and after fulfilling my diplomatic gesture of good faith for my Ethiopian co passenger I tucked myself in for the beginning of a nine hour flight. Tilted backward, the chair was dangerously comfortable, likely provoking my unintentional slumber which would later render me helpless in a state of fear and anxiety at the hands of an innocent member of cabin crew armed with spiced pasta and miscellaneous chunks of chicken.
Many miles later.
We landed in Addis Ababa about an hour behind schedule meaning we would do well to catch our connection flight to Gonder. The challenge was already great had we been on time, so with twenty minutes to spare we had almost accepted our fate.
My mouth was dry and body swollen from the flight. The usual scatter that comes with the mass exodus of a plane followed and I braced myself for stepping foot on African soil for the first time. I was expecting a wave of heat and regret to hit me, but it just seemed like any other international airport. There were of course obvious exceptions. Dozens of Ethiopian military slowly wandered the runways baring old AK47s, not a single member of staff was white and there wasn’t a Ryanair 737 in sight. Apart from that there was nothing particularly remarkable. My body was likely somewhat accustomed to the altitude after the flight so that hadn’t hit me as hard as I had anticipated, nor was it wasn’t particularly hot. We were packed onto a shuttle bus which drove us a mere 50 metres to the arrivals terminal. We knew the likelihood of making the connection was slim, but once on foot we picked up the pace regardless.
The lack of shock I had experienced on the runway was soon negated upon entering the dusty and deteriorated walls of the arrivals terminal. It was somewhat dark in comparison to the booming sunlight outside, likely due to the noticeable lack of natural light, and there were several people sitting around on rusted chairs and behind faded windows in booths. The lack of uniforms or consistency made it very difficult to gauge who was or wasn’t staff.
Getting through immigration was not an easy task. I had my first taste of what I would soon accept to be a severe bureaucracy problem when it required four people (who may or may not have been staff) to establish that I needed to have my visa processed. One woman approached me and asked – in very broken English – if I had my visa. I presented it to her and she analysed it for a moment, while another woman beckoned her through a faded interior window from a distance. I suspected they were talking about my visa, but the conversation was entirely in Amharic so I couldn’t tell for sure what they were saying. A third woman arrived, taking my visa and asking me if I had been to the Congo in the last three weeks. I told her I hadn’t and she pointed me in the direction of the desk that processes visas. The man as the desk seemed almost insulted at my presence as he scanned through my documents. He asked me questions through the glass window, but muttered them in the lowest tone possible. When I asked him to ask his questions again he grew steadily frustrated with me, an encounter I will likely never understand. It is probably important to point out that I was exceptionally anxious during this encounter. Technically speaking I was there on assignment and my profession as a journalist required me to apply for and present a special journalist visa for my trip. However, I had not done this and carried with me only a standard tourist visa. Usually this wouldn’t be an issue, but Ethiopia has a very interesting relationship with journalists. In March of this year, a group of five journalists were arrested in Addis Ababa having just been released from prison.
Ethiopian security forces have re-arrested a number of recently freed politicians and journalists as they gathered for a social event outside the capital, Addis Ababa, with family and friends, a lawyer said Monday.
Amha Mekonnen has represented a number of the detainees. The lawyer told the Associated Press the arrests Sunday afternoon occurred because they were accused of displaying a prohibited national flag. “I also understand they were accused of gathering en masse in violation of the state of emergency rule.”
Under Ethiopia’s latest state of emergency declared earlier this year, people are prohibited from such gatherings without authorities’ prior knowledge. A proclamation regarding the use of the Ethiopian flag prohibits the display of the flag without the emblem at its center and those contravening the law could be sentenced to up to a year and a half in prison.AP, March 2018
This wasn’t a new phenomenon for Ethiopian journalists. Another case that breathed down my neck during this encounter was that of Ethiopian journalist and human rights activist Eskinder Nega, who until recently had spent nine years in jail.
As we hurried around the airport like stray farm animals in search of the Gondar departure gate I felt as though I had accidentally wandered into a Tardis. The labyrinth of hallways coated in faded cream and brown tiles was like something you would see in a collection of photos found in a forgotten attic. No personality yet a stench of charisma and history. Everything that wasn’t a living creature looked tired, like it had been on a 20 hour shift in a dive bar and had not seen daylight in a number of weeks.
It took much negotiation, but upon discovering the whereabouts of our desired gate we rushed to the connection flight security area. It was not much to look at. Two scanners and two belts, as if it were only temporary. Only one of them was open but there were very few other passengers catching connections, so we didn’t have to wait. The staff operating the security area were militant beyond anything I had ever seen before. At Dublin we are far too conditioned to expect relatively patient, laid back and easy-going staff. That said, we are also conditioned to long wait times at security. There was none of that here. The folk who run security in Addis Ababa T1 don’t fuck around. It was like going through the initiation training for the Navy Seals. Multiple people standing there pointing and shouting at you in a language you do not understand, all whilst you’re still struggling to comprehend your very whereabouts. Your feet hurt, you keep dropping your things and your clothes cling to your aching body that is seeping what little moisture remains. I felt like cattle at a Roscrea auction. Once we made it through the blockade and were collecting our things, further chaos brewed when Niall tried to start a diplomatic crisis after he accidentally picked up another passenger’s handbag, mistaking it for Elaine’s. Immediately realising his mistake he put it back and apologised profusely to the Ethiopian woman, but the look on her face told me that Niall’s efforts were in vain.
I was beginning to notice that the people here all seemed to be in a terrible hurry as if they were catching the last chopper out of Saigon, but they all moved at an incredibly slow speed. During our rush through the airport to catch our plane we were often stuck behind clusters of people moving – gliding so to speak – through the narrow and stuffy corridors. They moved at a pace you may be assaulted for on Dame Street, but it did not hinder their immediacy. After passing the security check with flying colours we became aware that despite our greatest efforts we had missed the flight. We made our way back through the makeshift security area – much to the scourge of the security crew – and into the departures terminal in search of whatever transport north we could find. It was a small space, about 50 feet squared of off-white tile and was surrounded by closed shops. There wasn’t much going on here, but that was likely due to the hour of the morning it was. Looking back, I believe it was about 7am or thereabouts. At the time I was so jaded and tired and fatigued I failed to really give time any thought, feeling very much like I had entered some sort of a new dimension where time did not pass.
Thanks to the help of an Ethiopian Airlines assistant we managed to get seats – and our bags – on the next flight to Gonder, an hour later. Unfortunately this meant we had to tackle security again, but we had learned from our previous experience what was both required and expected from us. We headed back out onto the runway and boarded the humble looking Dehavilland Dash 8 Turboprop. Looking like something from a Libyan espionage film and smelling like an elderly relative’s home in the sky, our twin propeller vessel took off, leaving the fear and mystery of Addis beneath us. As we ascended rapidly into the morning sky, I peered down across the flat expanse of land that was Addis Ababa. The city was huge in area, and was littered with cast iron roofs on shanty homes. It was like someone had placed a carpet over it, but the occasional luxury hotel and football stadium had pierced through and stuck out like a nail through wood. I had been given my first taste of the Abyss. I knew there was more to come, but it was hard to imagine what it would be like. If airport staff in the capital city did not speak English, what hope was there in Gonder? As the plane began splitting the clouds and I looked back once more at Addis. It was a place I had been given a short but intense taste of, and I wondered if it was a taste that would sit easy on my palate as we continued our adventure that had only really just begun.
Evan O'Gorman 
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