I visited the Mercato, which is considered by some to be the largest open-air market in all of Africa. Other than reading about how you can buy anything from “camels to Kalashnikovs” and making a mental note to visit while staying in Addis I really didn’t give it much thought. It seemed whenever you mentioned Mercato to anyone, especially tourists of a pale complexion, the response always was “Don’t bring your valuables.” I just figured precautions are necessary as with any large gathering of people. So off the Mercato I went. I jumped on a mini-bus, which I am utilizing to various degrees of success, and 45 minutes later I was there. I think, in some corner in the recess of my mind, the recess influenced by romantic notions of other cultures, fueled by comic books and movies, I was hoping for a bazaar like the one Indiana Jones visits in Raiders of the Lost Ark, only on a grander scale. I was hoping to see exotic people selling exotic wares. I was hoping to return with an armload of exotic items deemed necessary to have by the sheer existence of the market itself. Boy, was I sorely disappointed. It’s just a big, dirty, impossibly crowded flea market. Blocks and blocks of stalls and shops selling the same knock-off junk you can find in any shop anywhere in Addis. Rain prevented me from exploring all of the Mercato, so I am giving it a short shrift here but I never did see any camels or guns for sale. (I am told that there are things in the Mercato you can’t get anywhere else you just have to know where to look.)
I was supposed to meet my friend Christian, who I mentioned as being scammed upon his arrival in Addis. We decided to meet at the bus station as it was thought to be a central location and we are taking a trip this week that includes bus travel so it would also act as a recon mission. While walking through the Mercato towards the bus station it began to rain. It was then I found out that there are two bus stations, one for long-distance service and one for short distance. I reached one of them (I could never get a straight answer as to the one I was at), as the rain became a downpour. After a quick walkabout to determine that Christian was not there I took shelter in the bus station for about a half-hour. A bus station in Addis attracts the same sort of people any bus station anywhere attracts. Just think Port Authority in a developing country. The downpour was so great that it was difficult to get away from the spreading puddles. My shoes and the cuffs of my pants became soaked. The rain started to dissipate and I set out anew to locate Christian and explore.
Walking through the Mercato, I encountered a new refrain targeted at farangi, “YOU! YOU! YOU! YOU!” with a miffed “HEY!” thrown in when ignored. This is every bit as annoying and obnoxious as the caps indicate. Blocking the never ending YOU’s from my mind I stopped in a pastry shop for some tea and cake (mmmmm, cake), then used a phone at a neighboring shop and called Christian on his mobile. He was at a different pastry shop, which he said was by the bus station. I ventured back to the bus station not realizing, until informed later on, that he was at a different bus station, popping my head into every pastry shop as I passed. A downpour began again. I decided to cut my losses and catch up with Christian later. I was overconfident from the little time I spent in the Mercato and my two trips to the bus station. I thought I could take a short cut back to the minibus stop. The cobblestone path I was following curved to the left and opened to a terribly muddy road. The rain caused filthy water to stream down this road. My already wet shoes and pants became ever more wet and disgusting. I mean really disgusting. I followed this muddy, filthy road and then realized that there were no more shops. I ended up in an alley in the back of the shops. There was a lot of activity: hammering, welding, chat chewing in the doorways, normal Ethiopian loitering, all done in the rain in the muddy road. I really didn’t belong here. The looks I got while walking through weren’t the normal farangi looks. These were bewildered looks. “What in the world are you doing here?” the looks asked. I could only provide them with a look back indicating that I was as surprised to be there as they were to find me. (I was thinking of the Dave Chapelle joke where he ran into another black person at a hotel in Aspen, CO while this was going on.)
Eventually, I saw some hustle and bustle in front of me and was unloaded from the mud to the Mercato. This wasn’t much of an improvement. While some of the roads through the Mercato are asphalt this just causes fast flowing rivulets of dirty water to race down them. Other than my upper body, shielded from the elements by my trusty rain jacket, I was soaked. Swamp foot was beginning to settle in as my Montrails are not waterproof. Great shoes just not in the rainy season. (My shoes are still filthy. I need to let them soak in a bucket of Purell to clean and sanitize them.)
I left the Mercato on the first minibus I was sure was going in my direction. It wasn’t the route closest to Mr. Martin’s but it was close enough. The downpour picked up on the drive back. Bole Road was like a river. Traffic was snarled as vehicles were stalled in the middle of the road due to the high water. Minibuses just plowed through angrily honking at the unfortunate victims of nature’s wrath. I looked through the fogged up windows and noticed white stuff on the ground. I wiped the glass clean to gain a better perspective. It was now hailing out. The hail was piled high. (12 centimeters high as it was reported on the news. An Ethiopian friend, who was out of town, asked me to confirm the 12 cm measurement. I just said, “Yes” without getting into the fact that off the top of my head I don’t know how high 12cm actually is. He knows I don’t do metric) I get to my stop but I am on the wrong side of the street. It is still pouring out and there is no way I can cross without wading through up to my calves. I stopped in a restaurant and got some lunch. By the time I was done eating, the rivers stopped flowing down the road and the sun was out. I walked back to the Cozy Place and showered the filth of the Mercato off of me.
Photo from minibus. Notice the hail in foreground:
Hail:
The road directly after it stopped raining:
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