“Watch and pray that ye enter not into temptation”

Inside the bus to Bahir Dar there was a big poster of Jesus on his knees looking heavenward and praying. A tiny angel hovered above him holding a glass of some kind. The caption read, “Watch and pray that ye enter not into temptation.” I had a long time to look at that sentence and think about it. What special message did this poster have for me? What was my tempation? Then about 7 hours into the brutal ride I realized the temptation I was being warned about was the temptation to ever take another third world bus.

I was lucky in that there was one seat left on the bus when it arrived at 7:30. If the bus had been full, that would have been that and I’d have had to take my chances on the next day’s bus. Villages between major centres were poorly served. All day long during our nearly 9-hour trip we sped past groups of people pleading for the bus to stop and pick them up. At places where we stopped to allow passengers to take a bathroom break the ticket takers would have to beat off the people threatening to overwhelm the bus. Who can say how long they’d been left stranded? The anger and strain was clear on their faces. Farming families between villages were even more neglected. Many men stood at the road with bags of homemade charcoal or other products they wanted to bring to market, but the bus left them choking in clouds of dust. How they managed I don’t know.

The road was the same road, boulder on top of boulder, that had temporarily defeated me and my bicycle and the pounding it delivered to the bus made me conscious that rather than criticize the bus service I should be thankful that any bus survived to make this run. We made it almost clear to Bahir Dar before a loud bang and rush of air signalled a flat tire. The total lack of drama with which the passengers filed off the bus and the blase way in which the mechanic set about changing the tire indicated how common an occurrence this was. I’m fairly certain a trip without a flat tire or mechanical breakdown was very rare. The tire they removed was in such bad shape I was astonished it had made it this far. The spare tire was even more ragged, but at least it still held its air.

The other elements of the trip were familiar from numerous other “bus rides from hell.” The sliver of seat apportioned to me just managed to catch a bit of my left buttock. It soon went numb then throbbed in pain while I tried to support the rest of my body with arms, legs, head, feet and hands. I tried to push over to claim more seat and once (oh bliss!) got a bit of my right buttock on the seat, but in this war I was no match for the locals. The windows remained tightly closed of course. Even as the temperature reached 34 degrees celcius and the sweat poured off my body no one opened a window, even a crack. The heat was considered preferable to moving fresh air, which they thought was a major health risk. I tried once to lean over and open a window just a bit but the outraged cries of the other passengers put paid to that idea.

The highlight of the trip was a 30-minute stopover in the town of Injibara. (This name is an educated guess as my dozen local informants gave me a dozen different names.) Injibara was at a high, cool altitude and placed amongst rock outcroppings, hills and greenery. It was market day and a couple hundred horsemen with colourfully festooned horses paraded around the town. They rode on small saddles but with no stirrups and bare feet.

Unfortunately Azmo, my buddy from Eyola, actually was on the bus and after Injibara a seat opened up beside him. I had no choice but to sit there and he bent my ear all the way to Bahir Dar. “I want nothing from you, only friendship,” he said over and over again right after asking me for something. He played tour guide and pointed out the window to everything we passed. “Tree. You look, okay? Cemetery. See? You look, okay? Bury, you know? Look, see, bury, dead. Christian, okay? Look.” I made the mistake of getting out my map to see where I was and this was immediately lifted from my hands and Azmo read off dozens of names punctuating each one with “See? Look! Okay?”

A Cocoon of Calm

As we approached Bahir Dar I got more and more nervous about the chaos that was surely waiting for me there at the bus station. I tried to get the bus driver to pull over outside of town and let me off there so I could cycle into town, but he wouldn’t do it.

I tried to develop a zen state of mind, a cocoon of calm inside of which I would stay until I was safe inside a hotel, but my buddy Azmo kept pouring a torrent of information and advice into my ear. I could barely hear him above the roar of the engine and had to ask him to repeat things over and over again. My cocoon of calm didn’t progress very much.

My spirits lifted slightly when I saw that the bus station was inside an enclosed courtyard. There was the tiniest glimmer of hope that I could retrieve my bicycle and gather my composure before I had to face the hordes of touts and ‘helpers.’ But it was not to be. Stepping down out of the bus I was surrounded by twenty shouting and screaming young men. As my bicycle, trailer and bags were lowered from the roof they were seized by this milling crowd and I engaged in a tug of war as everyone tried to rip things out of my hands. I finally had all my gear in a pile and I bent over it checking over the bike and attaching all the bags. Meanwhile the crowd around me is a solid mass of bodies pushing, shoving, shouting, and plucking at my sleeve. They screamed out the names of hotels and pressed their claims on me.

I moved deliberately and slowly, putting my bike together, focusing on each task one at a time till it was done and then moving on to the next. I tried to reduce the scene around me to just background noise, a storm raging in the distance outside my cocoon of calm, a riot of sound and motion that had nothing to do with me.

I held it together only because I knew that once I reached the street I could pedal away from this madness. My plan was to take them by surprise. I knew the hotels of Bahir Dar were to the left and that’s where they would automatically turn. I was going to turn right. I didn’t know what lay to the right, but I didn’t care. I just needed to feel the pavement moving under my wheels, reassure myself that I was free once more. I would just ride around the city as long as it took to get my bearings and keep my eye open for the little courtyard hotel that was going to be my home.

The plan worked, sort of. My sudden turn to the right took everyone by surprise and for a few seconds I was free and racing along. But I hadn’t counted on Bahir Dar’s unique nature. It was one of the few Ethiopian towns with wide comfortable boulevards and a cycling culture had developed. The touts on foot simply passed the baton to others who had bicycles. Three of them leaped on their ‘phonics’ and raced after me.

The touts on bicycle were even more relentless than those on foot. They crowded around me on both sides and behind, hemming me in and making it difficult for me to turn, guiding me like cowboys driving an uncooperative bull. I stopped the bike several times and turned to them and explained in English that I didn’t need their help and I’d appreciate it if they’d go away. I knew it was useless, but I felt the forms should be attended to.

They didn’t go away, but now at least they stayed a respectful distance behind me and stopped their shouting. I was grateful for that. I didn’t know where I was or where I was going, but I continued cycling making left and right turns at random trying to get a feel for the town. At one corner a young man on foot said, “Welcome to Bahir Dar.” Without thinking I turned to him and said, “Thank you.” That was all it took and he attached himself to me like a leech.

“You just arrive,” he said. “Where are you from? Where are you go? You need hotel, yes? You come me. I show you good hotel.”

I said no, that I didn’t need his help, but when I started to cycle again he broke into a jog and stayed with me, the three touts on bicycle arranged behind him. I picked up the pace and he broke into a run. I was on a long straight paved road with a gradual downhill incline so I geared up into sixteenth or seventeeth gear and rocketed along at 30 km/hr. In my rear view mirror I saw this poor guy still chasing me, his arms and legs pinwheeling like mad. I went the full distance of the road, about 2 kilometers and this guy didn’t slacken his pace the whole time. I got to the end and there was a roundabout circle. I whipped around it and blew right past him in the direction we’d come.

I felt guilty for about two seconds, but then I heard him shouting at the bicycle touts. He was pointing at me and urging them on. “He’s getting away! After him!” I guessed he was saying.

With his encouragement one of the bicycle touts moved up and followed close beside me. “Why you so unfriendly?” he said. “Why don’t you talk to me? I want nothing from you. I want only friendship.”

Perhaps on my first day in Ethiopia that line might have worked on me. And it probably wouldn’t have bothered me so much if I hadn’t had to listen to Azmo parroting those same words for the last three hours on the bus. I also hadn’t eaten the entire day and was feeling a tad irritable.

I turned to him and said I didn’t want his help, that I only wanted him to go away, far away, and leave me alone.

“Why you say that?” he said. “I only want to be friend. I want to show you hotel, that’s all, just to be friendly. Why don’t you talk to me? Why don’t you go with me?”

The remaining two bicycle touts were still with me, however, and they moved up closer. Then reinforcements from the foot touts started to move in. At a stoplight they all caught up and converged on me. I was surrounded. I looked around desperate for a way, any way to escape and when a short time later I found myself outside the gates to the relatively upscale Ghion Hotel I turned the bike and dashed through. I raised my fist to the sky in a gesture of triumph when I saw that the touts couldn’t follow me. There was an invisible barrier at the gate, a force field of money, and they all crowded around and with much gnashing of teeth watched their prey disappear.

The Ghion Hotel

The gravelled lane leading up to the Ghion’s main building was lined by pleasant trees. Beyond the lane I saw extensive grounds with gardens, large shady trees, and benches where you could sit and enjoy the views of Lake Tana. I felt like I had suddenly been transported to another country.

I parked my bike, went into the bar and had an ice-cold Pepsi served by a man in a crisp waiter’s uniform. My plan was to lay low for a while and when the touts had lost interest in me make my escape and search for a hotel that I could actually afford. But each time I went to the front to check on my bike I saw the touts still at the front gate, waiting for me. When they saw me they leapt to their feet and began waving their arms and shouting.

After the third such encounter I asked the manager just how much a room at the Ghion would cost me. He asked me if I was a tourist. I didn’t know what that meant exactly, but I pointed to my bike and said I was a poor tourist. In that case, he said, we can give you a discount and he quoted me a price of 90 birr, a discount of nearly 50%. Even 90 birr seemed an awful lot of money and I was about to turn and leave when a loud “fuck you” wafted through the air from the gate. I looked at the touts where the endearment had come from then back at the nicely groomed landscape of the Ghion. I stuck out a hand to the manager and said I’d take a room.

Tags: Bahir Dar, bike, Ethiopia Bike Trip, Look Okay