Beside the hotel was another small building containing two billiard tables. When I discovered them by peering through the open window, the roomit was crowded with men playing a game I’d never seen before. Five small pins sat in the centre of each table, one red and four white. They did not use cues but threw their balls by hand. The object was to strike a single blue ball in such a way as to knock down the pins and score points. Points were also scored based on the relative position of your ball vis a vis the blue ball and when balls fell into the pockets.

Tadele was quite eager to show me this game. He was extremely tall, perhaps 6′ 6″, thin, with popping eyes and a light goatee style beard. He played basketball and made a point of admiring my running shoes while bemoaning the sorry state of his own torn up loafers.

Tadele did his best to explain the rules of the game, but beyond the basics I couldn’t figure it out. For want of anything else to talk about, I asked him about the origins of the game. Was it African, an Ethiopian invention? I had it in my head that the pool cues had been broken or lost and they’d come up with this throwing version of billiards.

A young and exceptionally well-dressed spectator overheard my question and said in a clear, mesmerizing voice, “It’s Italian.”

I was immediately captivated by this man, by his gentle face radiating a calm and sharp intelligence, his long tapered fingers and thin, slightly hunched shoulders that gave him an academic air. His clothes were neat, stylish, with a surprising surge of colour that blended perfectly.

He didn’t say anything else, but the two of us kept an eye on the other, me from the window and he from the far side of the tables. I think we both expected our conversation to continue and simply waited for an opportunity.

Such an opportunity came later when he sat alone outside. I introduced myself and we chatted for a while. His name was Abiy Tesfaye and he used to be a school teacher, but now maintained computer systems for a company in Addis. Twenty minutes later, we were sitting at an outdoor table at a coffee shop, or ‘bunna beat’ a few hundred meters up the road. The “village” magic was working again and on the way we’d picked up Abiy’s best friend, Dereje Bayou, also a school teacher. As we drank our incredible cappuccinos in the dark street with noisy traffic and a bewildering array of pedestrian traffic around us, we were joined off and on by their friends in the village, also teachers.

The talk was intoxicatingly sharp and intelligent, these men well-educated and eager to discuss everything about the world as well as answer my naive queries about life in Ethiopia. Being outside, we were vulnerable to interruption and often had to pause while the night surged around us. Beggars and street-sellers came and went. Large dogs rushed out of the darkness and raced silently past, loping with steady purpose. A young boy working late with an all-steel wheelbarrow made enough noise to drown everything out. He loaded up his wheelbarrow with rock and dirt a hundred yards above us. He wasn’t strong enough to control it and simply gave it its head as you would a strong horse. He raced behind it at the fine edge of disaster, barrelling past our table, steel wheel on cement, all conversation impossible till he’d gained level ground and teetered to a halt.

Dereje was the livelier of the two and he kept the conversation moving along. He taught physics (Grade 10) at a private Catholic school. He and Abiy both spoke as men who had had a long time to think things through. There was a languor in their attitudes about their life, what they could expect in the future, but it was comfortable.

“Do you like teaching?” I asked Dereje.

This question prompted a series of head movements, hunched shoulders and furrowed brow. I knew what he was trying to say – that it depended on what I meant by ‘like.’ I got the impression again that my question came from my own cultural bias where we have many choices and insist on liking what we do, as if that made any difference.

“I like it as a job,” he said.

He went on to explain that teaching was not a highly regarded profession. He indicated with his hand that it was about halfway in the hierarchy.

Abiy made a noise of protest and said it was even lower than that.

“You get a big brain but no money,” added Dereje with a laugh. Money, he said, was what everyone wanted. Money was everything. Education, talent, even family gave you no status. To be rich was the only thing. You can stay in school for years and it does you no good. Other men don’t go to school at all and now they’re rich.

Walking back to the Tiru Gondar after we said goodnight, I felt drunk with the ease of our conversation. I had been so excited by the chance to communicate that when it was my turn to talk, the words poured out of me, stumbling over each other.

Dereje and Abiy didn’t seem to mind. They let me direct the conversation and were content to just have my company. It was a new experience for them they said to spend time with a “white man.”

That label, white man, still had a punch when I heard it. It was so direct and unflinching. I expected of course that being white in Ethiopia would colour my experience (pun intended with a groan), but from the first I was taken aback by how matter of factly the subject was treated. In Canada we might tiptoe around the issue, scared of making even the smallest faux pas. But right from the start in Addis it was all, “Hey white man, get your butt over here.” It was kind of a relief.

I found out something new about my new village as I walked along. It was something of a red light district. A gauntlet of prostitutes lined both sides of the street. Cat calls and hoots came in my direction. I didn’t look directly at them, but out of the corner of my eye I saw starkly made up faces, like clowns. One of them fell in step beside and just behind me. “You.” “Hey you.” “You you.”

She jabbed me in the arm with a pointy breast in case I didn’t get the picture of what I was being offered. The jabbing continued like a puppy nuzzling my hand to be petted.

Tags: Dereje Bayou, Ethiopia, Ethiopia Bike Trip, It Italian