The coldness of a gun and the gaze of a giraffe. The taste of that day is still sour.

Until I arrived in Addis Ababa, I thought I understood Africa.

From Kenya to Ethiopia.
Crossing the border by land.
But at that time, there were no official buses.

I got a ride on the back of a trailer.
There was no roof.
An exposed cargo bed.
Several people, including me, rode there.

The trailer started moving.
Thirty hours on the cargo bed.

Dust swirled. It rained down on my face and body.
Even if I closed my eyes or my mouth, the sand got in.
I wrapped a towel around my face. It was grueling.

On the way, I saw a giraffe.
A giraffe standing in the wilderness.
Its neck was long.
It was walking slowly.
That alone was my salvation.

I entered Ethiopia.
Traveling north through the country.

There were frequent checkpoints.
Soldiers stood there, holding guns.

They stopped the bus.
I showed my passport.

The soldier stared at it.
And then, let me pass.
We drove again.
Another checkpoint.
Another soldier holding a gun.

It was fine because it was a checkpoint, but if it had been an attack by an anti-government organization, it would have been the end.
It was unsettling.

I arrived in Addis Ababa.
I opened my guidebook and checked the address of a budget hostel.
But the hostel wasn't there.

The building was different. The address didn't match.
The information in the guidebook must have been old.

I was in trouble.
Then, a man approached me.

'Are you looking for a place to stay?'
'I'll show you.'

I followed the man.
We arrived at a small hostel.

'Here it is.'

He showed me a room.
It wasn't bad. But it was a bit expensive.

'I'll look at others,' I said.

The man's expression changed.
And then, he took something out from his waist.
A gun.

He pointed it at me.

'Stay here. Don't go anywhere else.'

His voice was low.
This was no joke.
He was serious.
I froze.

'Understood. I'll stay here.'

The man lowered the gun.
And then he laughed.

Good grief.

I went into the room and locked the door.
I put down my luggage.

My hands were shaking.
A gun had been pointed at me.
It was my first time.

I confirmed he was gone and went outside.

I found a cafeteria.
I ordered injera.
It's the staple food of Ethiopia.

What was brought to me looked like a gray crepe.
On top of it was something like curry.

I took a bite.
It was sour.
The crepe dough was sour.

It seems it's fermented.
It didn't suit my palate.

I took another bite.
It was still sour.
It was bad.

I wonder if this is the reaction foreigners have when they eat natto or pickled plums in Japan.

I forced myself to swallow it.
I left the rest.
I couldn't eat it.

I don't have good memories of Ethiopia.
The thirty-hour trailer ride.
The dust.
The soldiers' checkpoints.
Having a gun pointed at me.
The sour injera.

I was alive, I still had my passport, and my money hadn't been stolen.
I suppose it could have been worse.

The next day, I changed hostels early in the morning and booked a bus to the next country.
I decided to leave Ethiopia in a hurry.

Good grief.

—Ah, once again, a soliloquy in a strange foreign land.