01 The day begins when the sun rises

The mechanism is simple to state. The moment the sun appears above the horizon is counted as twelve o'clock. From there it runs one to twelve until nightfall, and then a second cycle of one to twelve begins, from sunset to the next dawn. Two twelve-hour cycles, just like the international system, but shifted by six hours.

In practice you do the conversion in your head: take six off the international time and that is it. 6:00 is 12. 7:00 is 1. 12:00 noon is 6. 18:00 is 12 again, and night begins. It is a perfectly coherent system that only clashes with the one from outside.

A tower crane silhouetted in black against an evening sky shading from deep blue above to intense orange and yellow at the horizon: the lattice jib crosses the entire frame from left to right, its hook hanging at the centre directly in front of the sun's disc, which is already touching the line of the mountains; above the jib, a band of cottony cloud with gilded edges; below, in shadow, the frame of a building under construction, the silhouettes of residential blocks and a chain of dark hills.
Sunset over the city. In the Ethiopian system this moment is not "six in the evening": it is twelve, and with it the day's second cycle begins.Jean Rebiffé / Wikimedia Commons / CC BY 2.0·CC BY 2.0

02 Why it makes sense here

What looks like an eccentricity from outside is, on the ground, the reasonable option. Addis Ababa sits at nine degrees north, very close to the equator, and that means the sun rises and sets at practically the same time on all three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. There are no long summer days or short winter afternoons.

Nine degrees from the equator, dawn is the most stable reference there is. Counting from it is more logical than counting from a midnight nobody sees.

Under those conditions, putting the day's zero at dawn is more useful than putting it at midnight. Hour one is always the first hour of daylight; hour six is always midday; hour twelve is always the end of the afternoon. The clock describes the actual day instead of an astronomical convention that here corresponds to nothing visible.

The city's profile seen from a rise with green grass in the foreground and a metal fence of green and ochre slats crossing the frame: in the middle ground, a mass of dense trees with palms and broad-crowned species hides the base of the buildings; behind rise some twenty office and residential towers of varying heights, in grey, white and blue, several still under construction, with three yellow tower cranes working among them; at the back, a range of bluish mountains closes the horizon under a sky of large white cumulus.
The city in mid-morning. In Ethiopian time this is "four o'clock": the fourth hour since the sun came up.Simfan34 / Wikimedia Commons / CC BY-SA 3.0·CC BY-SA 3.0

03 And the year reads 2018

The clock is not the only thing that does not match. The Ethiopian calendar has thirteen months: twelve of thirty days each and a thirteenth, Pagumē, of five days — six in leap years. And it counts years from a different starting point than the Gregorian one, producing a gap of seven or eight years depending on the date.

New Year, Enkutatash, falls on 11 September — the 12th in leap years — right at the end of the great rainy season. So a document dated here may carry a year that looks wrong to you, a month you do not recognise and a time shifted six places. All of it correct, and all of it different.

In practice this matters less than it sounds, because flight tickets, bookings and official documents for foreigners usually run on the Gregorian calendar. But it explains a lot that otherwise puzzles: why a sign advertises a year that does not add up, or why the national holidays fall where they do.

An oblique aerial view of the city's periphery: the ground between the blocks is a straw ochre, crossed by dozens of pale earth tracks winding between plots; on the left, four- and five-storey residential blocks in salmon and cream with red roofs stand in parallel rows; in the centre and right, a very dense fabric of low houses with grey and silver sheet-metal roofs, with the odd clump of dark eucalyptus; at the back, the ground lightens into a bare plain and everything is veiled by a brown haze.
Six million people organising their day by a clock that starts at dawn. This is not a museum curiosity: it is the working timetable here.Francisco Anzola / Wikimedia Commons / CC BY 2.0·CC BY 2.0

04 How to handle it

The practical rule fits in one sentence: every time you fix a time with someone, ask whether it is "Ethiopian time" or "European time". It is a normal question, one people expect and answer without fuss, and it solves ninety-nine per cent of the confusion. Asking takes three seconds; not asking can cost you half a day.

It also helps to know where each system applies. Airports, airlines and international hotels work on international time. Buses, drivers, markets and everyday conversation very often do not. The more local the arrangement, the more likely the time you are given is the Ethiopian one.

And there is one last way to see it, which is the one that really changes the trip. A clock that starts at dawn is not a mistake to be defended against: it is a different way of organising the day, as valid as yours and better suited to the place you are in. Understanding that turns the confusion into one of the most interesting things you will take away from here.

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Lucía Montes

Worth Knowing editor · Flowtravel

Lucía chases the fact that changes how you look at a place.