Songs of the Baka and Other Discoveries

by Dennis James

  The Abageda is chosen by the village chiefs and serves an eight-year term, but he can be removed if he is not doing his job. The tribe has a two-court judicial system: a court of elders who mete out justice in numbers of cows to be paid and a government civil court. The Abageda goes barefoot, even to international conferences. He has a car for official travel but prefers to ride a horse.

  With their permission, Barbara takes pictures. They hide their beer bottles just before she trips the shutter.

  Timkat in Arba Minch

  Forty-four percent of Ethiopia’s population is Orthodox Christian. Thirty-four percent are Muslim. Most of the rest are animists. Ethiopia was the second country (after Armenia) to adopt Christianity as the state religion. The Christian population controls a disproportionate share of the state’s government, economy, and culture. Their language, Amharic, is the official language of Ethiopia, and it is taught in all the schools. The Christians are concentrated in the central highlands and Addis Ababa, but even in the Omo Valley there are cities like Arba Minch, with a population of ninety-five thousand, that are almost wholly Christian. And it seems like all ninety-five thousand are in the streets to celebrate the holy day of Timkat, the day Jesus was baptized by John.

  The ceremonies start in the Cathedral of St. Gabriel with the bishop intoning chants a thousand years old, amplified for the crowd outside. After about an hour, he emerges, chanting and carrying a silver ciborium containing a relic, probably the bone of a saint or a piece of the true cross. He wears a dark-red miter topped with what looks like a large, flat, square-shaped pillow, black with a gold fringe. From this pillow hangs heavy red cloth, lined with orange, which covers the side of the bishop’s face and his shoulders down to his waist. All—miter, pillow, and red fabric—are embroidered in elaborate patterns of gold and silver. Underneath is a heavy white robe.

  The bishop is surrounded by lower-ranking clergy in similar vestments with slightly less ornamentation. One holds a white umbrella (more fringes) over the bishop’s head. In turn, each has their own yellow or white umbrellas with fringes. A team of lay assistants spreads red carpets in their path, rolling up the carpet the bishop and his entourage just walked on and unrolling it and sweeping it clean in front of them again, providing a continuous cushion for the bishop’s slippers. Behind the umbrella-clad clergy file members of religious associations in their traditional uniforms. Then come the most devout laypersons, the men in their best dark suits, the women wearing white shawls. Many also carry umbrellas, some white and others in bright colors.

  From time to time, the procession stops altogether while the bishop chants a prayer. Teenagers break into their own chant or song, leaping together in small groups like a traveling rave party. The wide boulevard and sidewalks are filled with people from wall to wall. We walk with the faithful, attracting a lot of stares, but everyone is loose, friendly, and having a good time. The constant joyful cacophony of drums, amplified chants, cheers, songs, and ululation fills the air. We are carried along in a human flood, a torrent of ecstasy.

  After about half a mile, the procession is joined by another phalanx, the congregation and clergy from St. Michael’s. The swollen mass shuffles and dances toward a soccer stadium at the edge of town. Individuals and small groups begin to peel off from the crowd and make for the stadium in order to get a good seat. We follow suit. The stadium fills up quickly. Young vendors hawking souvenirs and religious pendants work the crowd. Finally, the big white umbrella comes into view, bobbing like a ship on a sea of heads. The stadium crowd cheers, but then moans as the procession turns into an adjoining field.

  Timkat faithful, Arba Minch

  Most of the stadium faithful start to leave, as do we. Having guessed wrongly on the procession’s destination, by the time they could get to the other field they would be too far away for a good view of the holy rites. In the other field, the bishop begins what will be twenty-four hours of standing and constant prayer.

  Perhaps we should have paid more attention to the bishop’s prayers. A day after we leave Arba Minch, I come down with a serious intestinal disorder. The next day, Barbara gets sick. We have ImmodiumD but it doesn’t faze the bug—and we forgot to bring Cipro. Fortunately for us, the Ethiopian government has established a network of rural clinics staffed by doctors who have agreed to work in these facilities for five years in return for free medical education. By late afternoon, G is knocking on the door of the doctor’s small residence while we wait in the 4x4, sick as dogs. She is preparing dinner but puts it aside and goes right to work. She provides a supply of Cipro and gives us IVs to replace the nutrients we have lost. Things get better right away, and we’re able to resume the trip.

  Many in remote villages still rely on traditional medicine men (who are all men) for remedies. We observe an eighty-five-year-old man as he ministers to people in his “clinic,” a small central square in an isolated village, using herbs he gathers in the forest. Sometimes he disappears for days to search for the plants he needs. He claims to have healed broken bones, eased a difficult childbirth, relieved headaches, straightened and strengthened a sore back, and eliminated a fungus. His eldest son is learning his secrets and will succeed him.

  Fidel Slept Here

  The Bebeka coffee and tea plantation is Africa’s oldest and one of the world’s largest. It is in fact a small town with forty thousand residents, twenty thousand of whom work in its fields. Amid the coffee and tea plants is a community center with an area set aside for camping, which we plan to use.

  The grounds are beautifully kept. There is a sense of peace in the deep shade. That is, until two busloads of raucous, energized young people, dressed in their best clothes, unload at the gate. A wedding party has come to take photos with the lush foliage as background. The principals are in full regalia. The bride wears a long white dress and veil, and the maids of honor are in turquoise. The men sport dark suits. A professional photographer rallies them around. So, of course, Barbara unlimbers her Canon, gives everybody a smile and a handshake, and gets permission to take her own photos. An hour and one hundred photo opportunities later, the youngsters pile into their buses and wave good-bye.

  We are getting ready to set up camp when G brings news. There are two cabins on the property for special guests that are not currently in use, so the manager, in deference to our gray hair, has offered them to us and G. We gratefully accept. The “cabins” are Craftsman-style bungalows, the interiors of which are larger than our apartment in New York, and the stone and concrete exteriors look like they could take a direct hit from a tank shell and not be any the worse for it.

  We learn that the bungalow in which we are to stay was occupied five times by Fidel Castro when he attended Third World conferences in Addis Ababa. We sleep comfortably in Fidel’s bedstead.

  The Dig

  On our last day in the Valley, we visit the Melka Kunture Prehistoric Site, a round dig about six meters in diameter and two meters deep, sheltered by a peaked roof and open at the sides. The site is supervised by a lone doctoral student who gives us a tour. A nearby museum contains artifacts found during the dig.

  The site has been virtually abandoned for several years. What is special about this project, according to the young guide, is that the archeologists found stone and obsidian tools and chip marks on bones of animals, providing evidence of human habitation. Experts have concluded that, based on their placement in the rock strata, these artifacts and bones are more than one million years old. In 1974, a team of archeologists working near the Awash River in Ethiopia found the skeleton of a female, subsequently named “Lucy.” The remains, estimated to be 3.2 million years old, were at the time the oldest evidence of bipedal hominins who had stood upright and walked erect. A 4.4-million-year-old specimen was later found in the same area, giving Ethiopia a claim to being the cradle of humanity.

  A touching find at the Melka Kunture Prehistoric Site is the footprints, preserved in stone, of what is assumed to be a mother and child. The adult’s steps ap
pear to be closely spaced so as to match those of the child.

  The most important pieces are locked in glass cases. However, there are also stone hand tools and spherical stone balls used in cooking that visitors can pick up and handle, which I do. I am moved by this contact, however remote, with a human like myself, who was beginning to think, learn, and teach—the start of the long climb up the ladder of evolution and adaptation to dominance over the planet and all species, for better or for worse.

  We ask the young student about his future. He shrugs his shoulders. “There are no jobs for archeologists in Ethiopia,” he says. “The government is not interested.”

  Epilogue

  On August 21, 2016, Feyisa Lilesa raises his arms and crosses them in an “X” as he reaches the finish line to win the silver medal in the Olympic marathon event, calling the world’s attention to antigovernment protests taking place in Ethiopia, where people have taken to the streets to demand political change.

  The Oromos and Amharas, the two largest ethnic groups in the country, feel marginalized by the Tigrayan ethnic group, which constitutes only 6 percent of the population but controls the government, the military, intelligence services, and commerce. The government brutally represses any opposition. Despite being an Olympic hero, Lilesa is afraid to return to his home and is worried about his family’s safety.

  Afterword

  What have we gained from sitting in a climate-controlled tube for hours on end to get to places where we must hike up and down steep trails in the tropical sun or freezing cold; slog through mud or dust; eat strange food; fall sick; get bitten by mosquitoes and ants; set up tents on rooftops, in parking lots, or on grass littered with yak dung; and sleep in places with no toilet or shower facilities?

  A lot. We have seen many beautiful sights—mountains, rivers, art, architecture, monuments—but have enjoyed and learned most from our interactions with individuals and families. People we met, no matter what their tribe, clan, religion, country of origin or residence, color, political beliefs, or role in the family or community want the same thing: peace, a home, and a way to put food on the table. They also want something to sustain their spirits: art, music, dance, literature, and the right to a belief system, whether political, religious, or spiritual. Most of all, they want to control their own lives and provide for their children.

  But increasingly, given the global economic and political situation, such control is being eroded. The ways of life of indigenous peoples in Papua New Guinea, Cameroon, Ethiopia, and on the Orinoco are threatened by commercial interests and complicit governments. Political events are undermining the lives of people in Venezuela. In Gaza, Palestinians live under the constant threat of bombardment. Nepal is in turmoil because of natural disasters and unstable governments. We don’t know whether the lives of Iranians or Cubans will improve with the lifting of sanctions and the end of the embargo.

  And yet, the people we visited, even in places considered unsafe by the State Department, were friendly and hospitable. Sometimes those who had the least material wealth gave us the most—not only food and gifts such as shell necklaces and carved walking sticks, but also smiles and hugs. They were proud to share their lives and culture with us. They let us participate in their celebrations. They willingly posed for photographs because it made them laugh, and they saw that it made us happy.

  Our guides, with rare exception, were excellent—knowledgeable and kind. Most became guides because they could not find other work—as teachers, craftsmen, skilled workers, or businessmen—to support their families. We learned about their lives, families, and dreams—and they about ours.

  After we left, disaster, natural or man-made, hit several of the countries we visited. We are concerned about the people we left behind. We were able to communicate with some of the guides via email, but now most of our inquiries go unanswered. We have no idea what has happened to them.

  There is a bright spot. We did not travel to the far northern areas of Cameroon because Boko Haram, a jihadist group, was making incursions, kidnapping people, and destroying villages. This situation has since become much more dangerous. Jones, our guide, was a dealer in artifacts and a source of information about the wonders of African art. He was also sensitive to our interests, modifying our plans to show us something he thought we would want to see—and he would always be right. In one of the memorable detours, he took us to his home, where we had a delicious lunch with his family. When I was dehydrated and had to spend the night in a hospital in a rural area, he refused to go back to the hotel and slept in the car. “In case you need me,” he said.

  Jones’s wife was studying in San Antonio, Texas, while we were in Cameroon. He was waiting for a visa to come to the US with their young daughter. Knowing the reluctance with which our government issues visas and the looming danger from Boko Haram in Cameroon, we recently emailed him to ask where he is now. The news is good. He and his daughter are in Texas with his wife and their two sons. Jones has found some work, although it has been a difficult, and is continuing his struggle to adjust. But he and his family are together, and they are safe.

  We wish the same for everyone: in all the countries we have visited, in all the countries yet to come, and everywhere in the world.

  Next trip: Angola.

  Dennis James, 2016

  Acknowledgments

  We would like to thank everyone who offered the help and encouragement without which this book would never have been written.

  Martha Hughes, the leader of my longtime writing group, was the best teacher, promoter, and supporter one could wish for. The other members of the group, Maureen Johnson-Laird, Doug Wingo, Lisa Wohl, Keith McDermott, and Joe Levine, provided valuable and constructive criticism as well. To all of them, we will continue to repay in kind.

  Our agent, Priya Doraswamy, was always cheerful and indefatigable in her advocacy on our behalf. Our editor, Kim Lim, has been reasonable and accommodating. We consider ourselves lucky to have been able to work with both of them.

  We have received expert technical assistance, particularly with the photographs, from Thomas Fichter, a truly professional photographer, and especially from our grandchildren, Elana and Benjamin Sewell-Grossman. We are most grateful for their help. They saved us from many wasted hours and a great deal of stress.

  Finally, a big thank-you to our children, Elizabeth, Jonathan, Kiley, and Maya, for putting up with our travel dreams, despite their worries. The best thing about traveling was knowing that we would come home to you.

  Sing-sing in Palombei, Sepik River, Papua New Guinea

  Sing-sing in Angorogho, Tufi, Papua New Guinea

  Facial tattoos, Tufi, Papua New Guinea

  City view of Algiers, Algeria

  Lone Tuareg, Algeria

  Assekrem, Algeria

  Ghardia, M’zab, Algeria

  Kathmandu, Nepal

  Buddhist shrine on trail to Laurebina Yak, Nepal

  Chitwan, Nepal

  Baka hunter, Cameroon

  Bamileke king and his third wife, Cameroon

  M’bororo woman, Cameroon

  Proud Baka father and son, Cameroon

  Street scene in Havana, Cuba

  Mabel Poblet in her studio, Havana, Cuba

  Home studio of Alicia Leal and Juan Moreira, Havana, Cuba

  Dogon masked dance ceremony, Tireli, Mali

  Mosque and market, Djenné, Mali

  Leopard slayer, Mali

  Persepolis, Iran

  Khaju Bridge, Isfahan, Iran

  Imam Square, Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque, Isfahan, Iran

  Dusk on the Orinoco River, Venezuela

  Young Yanomami chief, the Orinoco River, Venezuela

  Yanomami family, the Orinoco River, Venezuela

  American International School, Gaza Strip, State of Palestine

  Children of Johr al-Deek, Gaza Strip, State of Palestine

  Woman with tattoos, Ethiopia

  Surmi woman and child, Omo Valley, Ethiopia

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bsp; The bull jump, Hamer Village, Ethiopia