We Get Around.

It’s hard for us to believe, but in 2015, Addis Abeba has a newly constructed light rail system that is due to open to the public at any moment now. Twenty years ago, public transportation in Ethiopia was much more random and haphazard.

The cheapest way to travel around town was via the government-operated Anbessa (Lion) Bus Service. The large red and yellow buses ran on routes throughout the city, with rides costing EB 0.10 (ten cents, equivalent to maybe two US pennies). The buses were crowded and unreliable and, rumor had it, a great place to have your pocket picked; we never once rode on the Anbessa bus. In retrospect I wish we had risked it, just for the experience.

The next level up was a shared taxi. These blue and white vehicles also ran on set routes but with a smaller number of passengers, and the price of the ride depended on how far you were going, maybe up to EB 1.00 (about 17 US cents). One could hail a shared taxi by standing on the side of the road and flagging one down, but there were also set transit stops where one could wait for a taxi going in the right direction; there was no timetable so it was imperative to plan ahead during busy commute times, as a full taxi would pass by without stopping.

Most of the shared taxis were Toyota HiAce minibuses known as “blue donkeys” that held twelve (often more) passengers in a standard four-seat setup. In addition to the driver there was a fare collector who would often ride, crouching, in the seatless space next to the sliding side door in order to make room for one more passenger. This guy (and it was always a guy) would lean out the open door as the taxi approached to tell you on what route and how far the taxi was traveling. If that was where you wanted to go, you would climb aboard, pay the fare, and find a seat.

I don’t think these exist any more, but back in the day there was an old-school variant of the shared taxi, based on a pickup chassis rather than a minibus. The driver sat in the cab and the passengers rode in the bed area that had been modified with bench seats running the length of each side, covered by a tall canopy with sliding windows and a door in the back. If there was room, the driver’s assistant sat in the back with his head and right arm out the window, singsonging the taxi’s destination while whacking the side of the canopy to direct the driver; if the taxi was full he would perch on a narrow seat welded to the canopy door, swinging into and out of the vehicle as it traveled. A couple of passengers would be ushered into the cab but the rest sat along the benches, facing each other with knees bumping together, skooching over to make room for just one more and then another as the taxi plied its route. Because of the face-to-face positioning in close quarters, these taxis were colloquially known as “wiyets” after the Amharic word for discussion.

Overloaded "wiyet"-style taxi. Source: addisfiles.blogspot.com

The fact is that any time a foreigner traveled in a shared taxi, whether a minibus or a wiyet, there was always discussion. “Hello, how are you?” “What is your name?” “Where are you from?” Any Ethiopian who had a secondary education was able to speak at least a little English, and they were eager to try it out. I used these taxis fairly often and I can’t tell you how many times I was proposed to, or invited to adopt a young adult. In jest. I think. It was always a little intimidating to ride in a blue donkey – standing alone on the side of a busy road, waving down the right vehicle and paying the correct fare, jammed in tight with strangers and facing a gauntlet of bold questions, whispers, and curious stares. I assume that taxi drivers were required to have valid driver’s licenses but you wouldn’t know it by the way they flouted the rules of the road. The most predictable feature of any taxi driver was his unpredictability, which was equally harrowing whether you were riding in his vehicle or in one nearby.

One could also travel in a contract taxi, just like at home where you would negotiate the fare based on the number of passengers and your final destination. Except these taxis were mostly tiny, scary, dilapidated cars – Soviet-made Ladas dating to the 1970s, also painted blue and white, with tattered ceilings and rusted-out floorboards, duct-taped seats, and fringed carpet covering the dashboard. They were among the smallest vehicles on the road but the drivers acted like they owned it, weaving between buses and dump trucks, darting through chaotic intersections, pulling into traffic with nary a glance in the mirror. We only rode in a contract taxi one time, a trip home from the airport, and that once was more than enough.

To be completely fair I should note that there was always a lineup of fancy taxis waiting at the airport – clean, pristine, late-model Mercedes sedans, probably with sane drivers, prepared to whisk passengers off to the Hilton or another fancy hotel. Needless to say, we never got close to one of those. I should also note that, like most Western expatriates living in Addis, we did most of our traveling by private car, both within and outside of the capital. More about that next time.