The Great Ethiopian Run
Eyes slide open to the sound of minibus taxi boys singing their song and that all-pervasive Ethiopian light flooding my Kings Hotel room. I look at my watch: 7:30am. Perfect, I think to myself, I’m about to embark on a mission of unknown outcome and I only got five hours of sleep.
***
The previous night’s entertainment included a delectable Indian dinner, followed by a pit stop at the German Beer Garden (the country’s only microbrewery), followed by a few hours of vigorous dancing at the Bailamos nightclub, shaking loose three months of dance-pants cobwebs in a sweaty, confused kaleidoscope of a club.
The taxi broke down on the way home, but we just abandoned it for another. I slid into my king-size bed at King’s Hotel at 2:30am and swiftly fell asleep.
***
I wasn’t planning on running the Great Ethiopian Run (GER), purportedly the largest road race in Africa. A great many Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs) had attempted to register a few months in advance but were unsuccessful. All the local registration slots, over 30,000 of them, were filled. If we wanted to run this “race” we would have to register online and pay over $50 USD. I, like many PCVs in country, balked at such an outlandish expense. Fifty bucks is more than half what we’re paid in living expenses each month. And besides, it’s just a 10k. I don’t pay more than $20USD for any race under 10 miles, much less 10km. So that was settled.
But then I had to come to Addis the weekend of the GER anyway, for a workshop. I mulled other options: organizing a fun run far and away from the hubbub that Sunday; joining the Hash House Harriers-Ethiopia for their Saturday afternoon run; sleeping in on a Sunday, possibly the only day I would be able to do so for a weeklong stretch. It made sense. The night previous I slept little and drank lots.
***
But here I am, at 7:30am, pulling on my running shorts, strapping on my running shoes, slipping various birr amounts in my security pockets, tying a bandana around my head, and gently whispering to my slumbering roommate: “I’m going to run the GER.” The decision was made. In my head rang the immortal words of the running gods: Just do it.
At the continental breakfast, I skipped greased lightning and piled my plate high with papaya, bananas, mangos, and watermelon. I wolfed this down and then guzzled 2 liters of water. After a quick release in the bathroom, I was ready to run.
***
The GER starts in Meskel Flower Square, Addis Ababa’s nod to its recent military-communist past, which is about 2 km away from King’s Hotel. For some reason I do not even consider taking a line-taxi. Remember: I’m not registered like the 30,000+ others walking around Addis this morning wearing bright red and purple T-Shirts. I have to be incognito; I have to look like I am just out for my morning run and I happen to stumble across “Africa’s largest road race.” So this means I have to run the 2 km to Meskel Square. It’s just a warm-up.
The morning is crisp. A bit chilly but the sun is out in full force. The run to Meskel Square only lasts 1.5 km. I decide to walk with the masses of participants and see where they go. I leave my watch at home (I don’t run with watches) so I can only guess I’ll make it to the starting line before the starting gun goes off at 9 am. I buy an ice-cold bottle of water at a souk and join the massive hordes being patted down by police in riot gear before they even get within five blocks of Meskel Square. Even though I know it’s partly a show, I still feel more secure with the police presence.
***
Once I arrive at Meskel Square, I briefly consider joining the race after it’s started. As in, I’ll hide in the shadows and then jump into the fray as it passes by the main road. But then I think, Nah, I want to have an official start, even if I get beaten to the ground by an angry mob of runners at the first kilometer marker. So I mosey my way into the starting line fray.
And by fray I mean a 30,000+ strong mob of revelers. People are posing for pictures. Irish hooligans climb streetlights and display their flag for what I presume to be Irish reporters. Insanely loud music is pumping and people are moshing like it’s a rock concert. Pasty-white elder expats are warming up in the front, having requested a special start separate from the mob start. Imagine! They actually plan on running the thing!
I nervously sip my ice water and look equal turns confused (like I just lost my way and want desperately to find an exit) and equal turns … utterly serene? Completely jazzed? Incredibly stoked? Energized? Rejuvenated? I take one last sip of water, put my bottle on the ground, and submit totally to what is about to happen very, very soon…
***
No gun goes off. No announcer says “Get set, go!” Nothing happens except a sudden mass movement in one direction. Friends grab each others’ shoulders, Conga-style, and snake forward through the mass of bodies. People start chanting theme songs that will continue for the next hour or so as they move themselves over six miles along a course that does a large loop around Addis.
The start of the GER is less like the start of a race than the start of a massive dance party. It’s too tight to run, so people shuffle, skip, hop, and dance in place. Body contact is expected. In fact, it’s better to be touching someone’s shoulders as you run if only to keep from toppling over and getting trampled. This is very much a running of the bulls event, especially at the start. There’s no stopping 30,000 people moving in one direction. If an actual bull were let loose in this crowd, the poor beast would get trampled to death by a throng of cheering, happy-go-lucky Ethiopians, lit by the fire of life and a thirst for communal sweat.
I’m already 500 meters past the start line and I still don’t feel like I’m doing any work at all. I’m too caught up in chanting at the top of my lungs and clapping my hands to an unknown beat somewhere to my left to remember that I’m running a 10km race. I look to the sidelines and see a string of foreigners (and serious Ethiopian runners) racing to the front of the line. Good for them, I think, I hope they get a good time. Me? I’m running to have a good time. It’s probably the first race I’ve run since my freshman year in high school where I’ve given in to the fun factor of running and didn’t care what my time or place was. Back then it was a mudslide of a course where shoes went missing and half the time I was sliding on my butt. Now it is a mobile party with legs, requiring all the skills of steeplechase precision not to trip and fall, but none of the water traps.
***
Around the 1.5km mark I spotted other PCVs! There was Chad, who was celebrating his 50th birthday by running today, his wife, Jen, and Amaka and Kim. I told Chad “Happy Birthday!” He said, “Hey, you made it after all!” And we exchanged words something along the lines of “Is this crazy, or what?!!”
But this group was taking it easy. I tried to slow down, but my legs screamed, “Run! Run!” And I vowed that no matter what, I would not walk any part of the GER. And so I bolted ahead, intent on picking up the pace each kilometer, until I found the breakaway group of runners, and commenced the actual race around, oh, say, the halfway mark.
Fat chance. The 5km mark came and went. When we came to a straightaway, I glimpsed the mob of over 10,000 joggers/walkers I’d have to pass in order to catch the front group. This is hopeless, I thought. It’s like trying to run through an overgrown forest. There are no clear and easy paths in which to power through. I would exert more mental energy than physical energy into this run just trying to figure out how I would smartly weave my way through the pack of jubilate runners/walkers without tripping or running myself into an open sewer. I did more zigzag running than straight running, and by the time I passed the 8km mark and caught up to JD, a fellow PCV, I hit a mental and physical wall. I was actually glad to slow down and jog with JD for a bit, weary at the never-ending sea of red & purple T-shirts clogging the streets in front of me.
I told JD that I’d see him later that afternoon and gave a silent nod to say, “OK, I’m going to finish this thing.” And I took off. The 9th km mark passed by. I cut to an outside lane where only a few lone runners held court, and I poured on the fire. Throbs of people cheered from both sides of the road the entire length of the course, meaning that over 60,000+ folks turned out in downtown Addis Ababa to watch 30,000+ people stroll by. It was madness.
I knew my luck was running high, no pun intended, but I didn’t want to risk a scene at the finish with race officials questioning my lack of race jersey. (Even those who preferred to wear their own race gear still ran with the official jersey over their shoulder. It’s the only way to prove your medal at the end of the race, as everyone got a finishers medallion upon entering the chute. So, with little fanfare, when the race hooked a right into Meskel Square for the glorious finish, I veered left and came to an anticlimactic stop with a view overlooking the expansive finishing line.
Later I heard there were people fighting each other for a medal. People grabbed two or more medals, meaning that those in the back would get the shaft. But it’s just the way Ethiopia works: If you want the prize, you gotta earn it through toil and sweat. Or, if you’re smart, you just pay someone to grab the prize for you and you stay home and watch ETV.
***
Epilogue: The Run Home
I felt a pain in my side. It wasn’t a sideache. It felt more like I was deprived of water, salts, and potassium. I started to jog, looking for a vendor selling a Gatorade. An Ethiopian man named Kebede joined me. I told him I was running to Kings Hotel. He said he would run with me, as he was going that way. Typical Ethiopian: He could’ve been going the opposite direction for all I knew but would still run with me to Kings…
But I still desperately needed some water, lest I go into pancreatic shock. So I stopped at a souk. Kebede continued to run. I bought my water, guzzled half of it, then caught up to him. It was better to run with Kebede, because he was an off-duty police officer, originally from the Tigray region, and would put out a hand and stop traffic so we wouldn’t have to stop running.
He asked where my race shirt was. I told him I gave it to a friend who wasn’t registered. He said I was “double-running” the race, which meant that it is common for people to do this. I felt a little better, but still wish I had a race shirt. Nonconformity is something of a religion of mine, but on this day, in this country, in this group of amazing people, I desperately wished I could conform and be part of the masses totally and completely. It’s not an experience I will soon forget. And maybe next year I will plan even further in advance to get a T-shirt.
As I said farewell to Kebede, who was running his fifth GER in a row, I made up my mind that registration and T-shirts are beside the point. Next year at this time, I know where I’ll be and what I’ll be doing.
