As I sit and think about it, if at the time I didn’t think I was being taken by bajaj to my horrific, untimely death, I might have asked for my ID. Getting a new one is such a pain in the ass.
Other, less helpful thoughts do run through one’s mind, though, when the unimaginable happens.
“Is that a bayonet? Where in the hell did he get that? Seriously? Why doesn’t he have the weapon it attaches to? That seems much more useful.”
But I suppose I shouldn’t say “unimaginable.” I’ve imagined a situation like this happening a million times before. It usually happens in a dark alley or a deserted street. I’m always cool under pressure and often enough find a way, usually through charm or humor, to defuse the situation. Or I kick the mugger’s ass using some sweet ninja moves. Either way, I get away with my things and my life.
It’s the stuff of daydreams, however. Especially when you don’t speak the same language and don’t know any moves, let alone those of sweet ninjas.
I’m not going to go into detail about what happened. I’m just thankful that I’m here, intact, and able to laugh at the absurdity of it all. I mean, what the hell are they going to do with a Kindle? There are probably, like, three in all of Bahir Dar. Maybe they’ll find the hand sanitizer useful. They eat with their fingers, after all. And the mirror. God knows they could use a mirror. Or the glasses. Maybe I’ve unwittingly donated a pair to an Ethiopian in need.
But my ID. Dammit, I should’ve asked for my ID. Maybe next time.