Sitting in the low chairs of the Hilton lounge, I work late into the night on a caramel macchiato roll.

I look up frequently, thinking I’m starring off into the endless Ethiopian evening, conjuring up the right revenue model, the particular word with just the right nuance, the percentage of conversion for a highly-targeted email campaign…I yawn, absentmindedly smile, what an amazing place. It’s not until he gets up to leave the bar and waves to me  that I realize I was being watched. And to my surprise (since my uniform these days are jeans, T-shirt, not-quite-dry hair in a French braid and worn gray backpack), he returns, the German engineer, full of compliments and interest, suggesting we grab a drink later.

Thankfully, it’s late. Nearly 11pm and well past the hour I try to be home. So it’s easy to make excuses and leave.

It’s much harder getting around the massive, muscular guard, who eyes me nervously, like a mother hen, instructing me not to leave, but stay at the Hilton.

I blink. I laugh. It is late, but to play it safe with a night at the Hilton (at $250 a night) is worth more than five nights at my hotel. No.. I need to go to my hotel on Bole.

He shakes his head. When I insist, he sets out to find me a taxi. I think this will be easy, looking at the parking lot full of parked taxis.

But the guard interrogates with a barrage of questions and (with disgust) dismisses the first five.

I’m tired. I’ll be fine, I insist.

So he sticks his massive frame into the window of the next, yelling questions and a rate. He turns to me apologetically shaking his head, 50 birr to Bole. It is the late-night price. It is robbery. 

I want home. I’ll pay it. (I flip my ring onto my wedding finger. I quietly tighten down my backpack.)

There’s more arguing. Then the guard and the driver shake. Then more arguing.

Finally I’m in the cab, heading to Bole.  I realize instantly the roads that are well-traveled around 8PM and 9PM, are now nearly deserted. The few figures on the streets are not women. I’m on my guard. I watch his driving, looking for any sign of deviation from our route while he continues prying into my personal life: what is your age (32) and a husband (yes, married four years), where is he now (at the hotel, waiting up for me, I called him before I left the Hilton), children (no, but hopefully soon).

The driver is full of questions. First very friendly. (Where I’m from, what I’m doing in Ethiopia, what do I think of it so far, how have I learned so much Amharic?) When he finds out that I’m from Seattle (where he says his sister lives), he tells me that we are friends, like family now. And then it gets weird. (He asks me to have a drink with him, to which I respond with:  “I don’t drink.”)

He shakes his head. He tells me that it is sad. That were he my age, he would be married with children. He says that I must be very sad inside to have no children.

I try to change the subject, but he returns the topic of children. So I let him rant as I watch the road.

When we near the gravel road turn off, he stops. 200 birr, he tells me.

I stare at the dark road. No. That’s robbery. You promised 50 birr. (which is already 10X higher than what it usually costs in the day).

I promised the guard. I did not promise this to you. He tells me slyly. He then tells me that the gravel road will damage his car.

I snort laughter that going a half mile on gravel would do anything than knock some dust off his rust-chewed, heavily-used exterior.

You will pay it. Or I leave you. It’s a dangerous place. To be alone here. Maybe you are fine with one or two. But alone…as a woman you will be beaten and worse. You will be raped. 

His matter-of-fact tone and the violence he promises, after swearing friendship and family earlier, sends chills up my back. You will pay me 200 birr.  

My voice is hoarse, but I order him to take me to my hotel, fully ready to jump from the car, moving or not, (fingers already have the door latch released) at any moment. But figure the less I have to cover on-foot, the better.

The sound of gravel crunching between his slowly rolling tires, the pounding of my heart, as he continues to threaten me. You will pay me 200 birr.  Habesha men will find you and beat you and worse, because you are a woman. 

I’m shocked when I see the hotel come into view. The guards stand up. My first impulse is to turn this man over to the mercy of the guards. At the same time, it’s such a weird situation–I don’t want to bring a fight to the kind people here. For $10.

I reach into my bag and then fling birr notes at him, and yell, You are a horrible, evil man…and you are NOT my friend.

I am shaking when the guard jumps to my side, realizing this wasn’t a usual ride. But I call him off. It’s ok–let him go. I want no trouble.

They sit me down at the front desk and I tell them the story. They gasp in shock, appalled, and agree that he is bad and apologize for the experience and insist I tell the guards when I need assistance. I apologize for the trouble, but they tell me not to worry — I’m with friends.