How to survive a riot in Ethiopia

Skippy saves the day in Addis Ababa.

Danger doesn’t always announce itself. You don’t wake up in the morning and think ‘This is the day it’s all going to go wrong.’ In my experience it comes from the most innocuous beginnings. Like the day I got caught in a riot in the Ethiopian capital of Addis Ababa.

It all began when I decided to change hotels. The establishment I was staying in had come highly recommended by my Lonely Planet Guidebook. But on my first night I discovered that it doubled as a brothel. The bar was noisy and the girls plied their trade just outside my door. I found myself wondering just exactly what my guidebook was describing when it said the Tropical Hotel was ‘cheap and clean.’

The new hotel I chose was in the sophisticated-sounding ‘Piazza’ district of Addis Ababa. It came recommended by a Dutch couple I’d met in an Internet cafe. It was no more than ten minutes away, they assured me – a short minibus ride.

It took a little longer than that. Halfway up Churchill Avenue, the wide boulevard that connects the Piazza district with downtown, the driver did a reckless U-turn over a median strip high enough to launch Evil Knievel and started heading back towards town. I yelled for him to stop and was unceremoniously dumped beside the road. I’d barely got my pack out when the van squealed off, its wheels smoking and spinning.

It wasn’t until after I’d put my pack on and raised my head that I noticed hundreds of people running down the hill in a panic. A couple of hundred metres behind them was an angry mob waving chunks of wood and firing guns into the air. I stood dumbstruck.

A young passer by saw I was in danger and dragged me into a mud brick shop on the side of the road. He introduced himself as Mebratu and when my eyes adjusted to the murky light I noticed we were in a coffin shop. He indicated for me to hide behind a half-finished pine number, with the lid leaning against it.

About twenty locals had taken shelter in the coffin shop as well. An old lady sat on the floor rocking back and forth, sobbing. A middle-aged man stood near the window and peaked out, giving us an update on what the rioters were doing. For half an hour I hid, listening to the yelling and screaming, the sound of gunshots and breaking glass.

Eventually the commotion subsided and Mebratu announced it was safe to leave the shop and continue to the hotel. He said he would accompany me to ensure that I arrived safely.

I’m glad he did. Sometimes it is priceless to have someone who speaks the local language. Young men were milling on the street corner opposite. When they spotted me they pointed at me and started angrily shouting ‘American! American!’ Mebratu went and spoke to them in the local language and I was allowed to pass.

‘I told them you were Australian,’ he explained. ‘They have seen your Skippy on television.’

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