Before I left for Ethiopia, Don warned me about fleapits, Dervla Murphy wrote at length of biting insects and Bradt mentioned cockroaches more than once.
Also pickpockets. According to the guide book, they cluster around Bole Airport, slashing bags and creating distractions. (The pickpockets, not the cockroaches.)
So when I arrived at Bole Airport in Addis Ababa at four minutes past midnight (somewhat later than the 20h35 scheduled arrival time), I was in what might be described as a state of trepidation. I had zipped all my valuables as deeply as possible into my camera bag and taken stock of my (inadequate) supply of Tabard.
But the only suspicious character at Bole Airport, apparently, was me. As I hauled my bag off the carousel and attempted to wheel it through customs, I was stopped and asked to prove my ownership by producing the luggage tag. This has never happened to me before. In fact, I place so little stock in those luggage tag thingies, that I had left mine, attached to my boarding pass, on the plane.
I explained this to the official. ‘What are we going to do with you?’ he asked, rhetorically, his pockmarked face showing no trace of humour. Fortunately, even after 16 hours of planes and airports, I had some left over. ‘Well, I can tell you exactly what’s inside that bag without looking, how about that? There’s another bag in there, also orange, and five pairs of socks and energy bars and milo bars and some goos and a pair of sandals and five t-shirts that say ‘Getaway’ on them and an orange sleeping bag and a red blanket and…’
Pockmark got the point. Somewhat disappointed that he hadn’t bothered to verify my terrific feat of memory, I strolled out into the pickpocket-ridden wastes of Bole aiport, where the only person who came anywhere near me was a pleasant guide with a large clear sign with my name on it. He helped me with my ill-gotten bag and drove me to a hotel where the dirtiest thing by far in the basic but spacious room was me.
