Bank employees walk unbearably slowly. The cashier did her job in slow motion: stamping, shuffling papers, and of course, moseying down to the tellers to pick up more forms. My frustration was exacerbated by the queue system, in which customers received a metal token rather than numbers torn from a sequential paper tape. Thus, the electronic sign indicating the next in line was completely random. Restlessly, I watched the sign tick 52-93-4-25.

There are few things more nerve-wracking than being in a hurry in Africa.

I had two things to accomplish before returning to Dire Dawa for my flight: check email to see if Sem had a place for me to stay, and change money. Ethiopia is low on ATMs, and the ones that actually work only take VISA cards, so I'd been told to bring plenty of traveler's checks. However, I'd tried Dashen Bank the previous day and was told they were "impossible" to change, leaving me a little desperate at the Commercial Bank of Ethiopia today.

I decided to check email first because it was 1:30 and the bank took its standard 2-hour lunch break at noon. For some reason it hadn't occurred to me other businesses took this lunch break as well. But by 2pm, the internet café was still closed, and I had to rush off to the bank.

However, at the bank I was first gently challenged on my signature not quite matching the one on my checks—an inevitable problem due to my terrible handwriting—and then told it would take so long I should go back to my hotel and wait. I hurriedly said I would go to the internet café and pick up my money later.

Imagine trying to run errands through this?
Walking back to the internet café, I was suddenly accosted by two street kids. Each grabbing an arm, they proceeded to dig in with their little nails and scream "CHINESE GIVE MONEY CHINESE GIVE MONEY" until I thought I'd lose my mind. The smallest child was easier to push off, but the older one required more force. To my horror, I yanked my arm so hard it whacked the kid in the face. I managed to get online long enough to learn that Sem was taking a short trip out of Addis so I'd be on my own, and then shamefacedly walked on the opposite side of the street to avoid confronting the kids again.

Back at the Commercial Bank, the teller had been waiting for my signature—in front of locals subtly craning their necks to see that I'd changed the equivalent of a month's salary to fund my next week of vacation. Once accomplished, the wait for the cashier began.

Pockets stuffed with birr, I ran back to the hotel in a panic over the fact that it was 3:00, the bus to Dire Dawa took an hour and a half and my flight was at 5:20. Practically in tears, I grabbed my luggage and begged the guys hanging out at reception if there was any possible way to pay a taxi to take me all the way to the airport, since I'd gotten the same offer in Dire Dawa. It turned out there was no amount I could pay anyone to take me there.

The hotel's official taxi driver showed up to drive me to the bus station—a short walk away but with my additional bag of souvenirs and 2-liter bottle of water, it was helpful. I squeezed onto the last seat on a minibus, which left immediately. Unfortunately, it was now almost 3:30.

I knew from experience the bus ride could be up to 2 hours including stops. I was in full-on panic mode...I was on the last flight of the day to Addis, and without getting to Addis I couldn't get to Gondar and without getting to Gondar I couldn't start the TESFA trek. The dominos in my head wobbled.

Although the bus was full, the driver optimistically pulled over to ask every person we passed where they were going. My best guess was that they would say, "Dire Dawa," and the assistant would cheerfully say "sorry, we're full!" which was pretty damn obvious. Lather, rinse, repeat. We were also stopped constantly for "customs checks," which consisted of uniformed men looking under our seats but not asking to see our passports. Throughout the ride, the bus assistant sat behind me loudly chewing, alternating between chat leaves and peanuts and flicking the detritus at my shoulder. This did not improve my mood.

On the plus side, the road between Harar and Dire Dawa is gorgeous, almost indescribably so. The right side of the bus—left side when coming from Dire Dawa—was significantly better than the other way around, which was already quite beautiful. We passed craggy valleys and terraced fields, blanket-wrapped women lugging produce up the hills on foot and children herding sheep along the road.

I couldn't stand waiting until we got to the bus station, and the minute we got within Dire Dawa limits I jumped in a waiting mototaxi that took me to the airport for 20 birr. At an airport the size of my office lobby, I was security-checked at the door, checked in about 20 feet away by a smiling man who said "I think you are very late today!", told to hand my boarding pass to a man standing THREE feet from the counter, then rechecked for security another 15 feet away. My panic only subsided when I realized the plane, sitting right in front of us, wasn't moving any time soon.

After all the stress of the day, I confirmed there's just no point in being in a hurry in Africa.

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