I don’t think I’ve ever seen a city wake up so fast. One second the road was empty. The next it was chaos. The holes in my grand plan quickly became apparent.

I knew of course that I would stand out and attract attention, but I never anticipated the reaction I got. I drew crowds instantly. The shouts and yells and laughter rained down on me from all directions. People reached out to touch me. Children jogged alongside me for a kilometre at a time constantly shouting and demanding money. They didn’t seem to tire, and I realized they never would. I’d forgotten about all the great marathoners that come from this part of the world.

The roads themselves weren’t that bad, but the obstacles that did crop up were real showstoppers: craters that could engulf my bike whole, boulders that would flip me easily, and potholes that if hit would spell “game over” even for my brute of a front wheel. On one corner as I slowed to a stop, I was caught unawares by a sewer grating made out of rebar. Even my bike’s big wheels and tires would have slipped through the gaps easily. I couldn’t imagine what a grating like that was designed to keep out.

I wasn’t at all sure of where I was and in what direction the centre of the city lay. For this trip, I wanted to do things differently and I had deliberately not brought a guidebook, so I had no real starting point when it came to finding a place to stay. My plan was to let Ethiopia dictate what happens and go with the flow. Instead of finding out what I needed from a book, I was going to find out through the locals no matter how difficult that might turn out to be. But oh brother I had no idea just how difficult we were talking about.

The traffic materialized just as quickly as the crowds did. One second I was pedalling leisurely along and soaking up the atmosphere. The next I was fighting for my life. Giant buses spewing out clouds of diesel fumes surrounded me. They roared past and braked. I would swing out to go around but only make it half way before they pulled out and pushed me deeper and deeper into traffic. Mini-vans provided a second line of mass transportation. Each had a driver plus a tout. The touts kept their heads out the window shouting out their route and herding passengers together. Each tout upon seeing me would nearly fall out of the van with surprise but recover enough for a parting shout in Amharic or a quick “you you” in English that made everyone laugh.

I cycled along more on blind faith than anything else. I was hoping for a big landmark to get me oriented, but I was left completely bewildered. There was nothing for it but to simply keep pedalling and see what happened. I figured I’d run into a cheap hotel sooner or later. That was in fact the grand plan when I was back in Canada, but somehow I never quite pictured it like this. This city was giving no quarter. I was the hare and the whole city was the hound. There was no place I could go to gather my thoughts. The moment I stopped, I was besieged. Asking for help didn’t generate that cross-cultural warmth I’d anticipated. I just got blank stares, laughter, jeers and hands all over the bike and baggage.

The intersections I hit were immense and had imposing structures all around, but I could correlate none of it with anything on my rudimentary map and kept cycling. I tried again to speak with someone on the street, but when I shifted my weight on the bike the poor fellow jumped like I’d fired a gun and ran up the street. The crowd that followed me everywhere instantly grew bigger and everyone shouted and clamoured about what had just happened. I had to physically push my way out.

I followed a road up a long and steep hill thinking I could get a bird’s-eye view of the city. I made it to the top drenched in sweat, but my marathon buddies were there before me, not even breathing hard. I turned right and the road traffic suddenly disappeared and I was cycling against a wave of people, donkeys, goats and chickens. On my left rose a high wall and along it swarmed dozens of beggars. The thundering reality of this took me by surprise. The shock of moving so quickly from Canada to here was almost too much for me. I desperately wanted to hit pause or rewind or somehow slow it down. I needed to stop, to think, to breathe.

I turned off the road onto a small patch of pavement that was oddly free of humanity. No one followed me, and I breathed a deep sigh as I pored over my map to figure out where I was. The children hadn’t given up though, and I heard them shouting from across the road. I finally looked up when their shouting took on a sharper tone. To my surprise, they were pointing behind and above me. I looked and saw high on the wall a soldier with his rifle trained on me and waving me away. I looked ahead and saw two more soldiers behind a roadblock unslinging their rifles. I waved a cheerily sarcastic greeting and turned my bike out of sanctuary and back into the tumult.

The road I was on seemed to go further away from the city and I decided to turn back. I had seen one sign on my travels that said “Palm Hotel.” I had passed it by because it looked more like a bar than a hotel and was located on a major road beside a gas station. But I figured I’d better find some kind of haven, any kind, before I lost my mind.

Backtracking, I now had a clear view of some of the city and a new huge building stood out. No one could tell me what it was. But then I remembered a small boy several blocks back shouting out “Shrat, Shrat, Shrat,” and pointing to a road. It dawned on me that he was saying “Sheraton.” It was the Sheraton Hotel. That at least gave me some kind of landmark.

Finally, I zoomed down the hill I’d climbed up so painfully and worked my way back to the gas station. Then fortune smiled my way. An old man in a Shell Oil uniform struck up a conversation. His name was Negede. He spoke excellent English – a surprising number of Ethiopians I’d encountered did – and had some kind of connection with the Palm Hotel next door. I questioned him. Yes, they had rooms. Yes, he knew the people who ran it. Yes, it was perfect for me.

It actually didn’t matter what he said. I was absurdly grateful to have an ally. Just that little bit of human contact made all the difference and a smile spread across my face as I mentally sat back to enjoy the drama of moving into my first temporary home.

Tags: bike, Canada, Ethiopia Bike Trip, Palm Hotel, Shell Oil