by Aaron Barlow
Showing up to greet the emperor is left to the common people.
Two men in khaki roll out a narrow red carpet in the general direction of where the plane will come to rest. The crowd is dressed in their usual traditional best—white, homespun cotton dresses for the women, their heads and shoulders covered with white shawls. The men wear long tunics over jodhpurs, both of white cotton twill, white gauzy shawls draped over their shoulders. I’m wearing an ordinary brown cotton dress my mother made and, while everyone else is barefoot, I’m wearing locally made leather sandals with upturned toes that protect my feet from our stony paths.
So now I will finally see H.I.M. in person, in my village. I am here in Ethiopia only because he requested Peace Corps Volunteers. He wanted fast growth of education in the provinces and, to achieve that, he wanted young, healthy Americans who would be willing to live in distant villages until Ethiopian graduates from the teacher training college could replace us.
The Emperor and I have a connection, a reason he could actually know of me. But will he know me if he sees me?
Guy told me that Haile Selassie knew who I was the night we realized our relationship was changing. Our feelings for each other were intense, even though liking each other was all I ever intended. Guy lives and works in Addis Ababa, a professional person, and I’m in the northern highlands. I did not expect a satisfying relationship.
“There’s something that I need to tell you,” Guy said that night in Addis as we were saying a long farewell in the lobby bar at the Itegue Mennon Hotel. I was due to fly back to Bahar Dar early the next morning. “It shouldn’t make a difference for us, but it is better that I tell you.”
“Hmm, that sounds interesting, but difficult,” I said.
“It is both.”
“O.K. Go ahead. Tell me.”
“Well, you know how in our country all marriages are arranged?”
“Yeah. Sort of.”
“I know this will sound odd to you, but I must tell you. I hope you will accept what I say. It does not change anything about us. It’s just one more thing I need to work out in my life.”
“O.K.”
“I have been, how should I say? Promised? I am supposed to marry someone.” Guy’s soulful brown eyes, so typical of the handsome Amhara people, white half-moons below the chocolate brown irises, always made me feel warm inside. I continued looking straight into those mournful eyes, calmly listening, waiting. “This is one of the things the Emperor speaks to me about.”
I knew he spoke with the Emperor; I’d been in his Addis Ababa office when he received calls. I had assumed they spoke about Guy’s marketing activities at the tourist organization, and they probably did, too, since it was the Emperor who had placed him there. But they spoke in Amharic, and quickly. There was no way I could understand a word.
Engaged? I was stunned. And His Imperial Majesty was involved?
“Who is it you’re supposed to marry?” An easy, bland question.
“The Emperor and my family betrothed one of his girls, Hirut, to me when we were children.”
“Do you love her?”
Guy laughed long and loud, but his eyes did not look cheerful. “Love is not the point, my darling Carol. We’re betrothed by our families. That’s all. We were betrothed for reasons not having to do with love.”
“And now?”
He laughed again. I was not finding anything funny. I gave him a straight, serious look that he understood to mean he ought to get on with answering my question. “Hirut is living in the north, in Lallibela, and she is in love with an American.” Guy looked at me in a peculiar way, as if I should see the irony. And while I might, I couldn’t stop to enjoy it. “She lives in a more primitive place than you. No running water. No electricity. No industry. I feel sorry for her there. The American is an architect restoring stone churches. Wonderful, don’t you think?”
“I guess.”
“Wonderful: Hirut and I are promised to each other and we both are in love with Americans.” Guy slapped his knees. I couldn’t laugh; this was the first time he’d said that he loved me. “My dear Carol, this does not affect us. I don’t want it to. But I wanted you to know—not to hear from someone else.”
“An arranged marriage,” I said.
“Yes.”
“But without a wedding date.”
“That’s right. With our families’ acceptance, we’ve been putting it off for many years. That was easy when I was abroad studying, but now—we don’t know how much longer we can do this.”
“Is this the family problem your father asks you to fix?”
“Only a little part of the problem,” he said. “But, yes, it is one of the things he speaks to me about.”
“Can’t the Emperor just make you do what he wants?” I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. “I mean, he’s the king, right? Don’t kings just get to have things the way they want?”
“The Emperor is not like that. He’s very kind. And patient. Also, he’s very curious about you.”
“About me?” I said, surprise quickly turning to a small panic. Couldn’t Peace Corps find out about this? Wouldn’t they send me home, pronto? “Oh, shit!” We were told in training that we were to be very discreet. As fresh Volunteers, we translated this to mean we could do anything we wanted, as long Peace Corps staff did not hear about it. And now the Emperor himself knows about me. More importantly, he knows about Guy and me.
Today H.I.M. is coming. Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip are soon to make a state visit, and H.I.M. will bring them here to Bahar Dar to show off his rural outpost at the source of the Blue Nile. He has an experimental farm on that hillside. H.I.M. is proud of his agricultural successes.
So now I’m standing at the airstrip, to show my respect just as everyone else here intends. In some crazy way it seems to me that if H.I.M. really knows who I am, if he does know I’m stationed in Bahar Dar, he would be insulted if I didn’t appear? So why am I getting nervous and having second thoughts? Because I’m an obstruction to the Emperor’s plans? But I didn’t intend to become an obstruction. I don’t want to feel as vulnerable as I do at this moment. But I won’t avoid this.
The Emperor’s plane touches down, and the mighty roar of the propellers drowns out the women and men who’ve kept up their falsetto trilling and rhythmic thumping. Two men in khaki uniforms roll out the stainless steel stairway. A third man runs to deliver another strip of red carpeting, and they begin unrolling it from the top of the staircase, creating a continuous red walkway down the stairs to the carpet on the ground, which leads into the metal warehouse building, a decidedly inelegant entry to Bahar Dar.
The plane door opens; a hush descends. We wait, breathless. Everyone else must have already known what to expect, because they begin laughing even before I see the little dog, a tiny, brown, fluffy lap dog at the top of the red-carpeted stairs, the smallest dog I’ve seen since I arrived in Africa. He stands at attention, perched on skinny legs on the stairs’ top landing. As if receiving an “at ease” order, he descends the stairs, hopping on all fours onto each stair one at a time. He reaches the bottom of the stairs, turns back to look up at the open door, then sits and obediently waits.
All at once the women begin trilling again, keeping at it until H.I.M. appears. He stands at attention in his military uniform, his billed cap, and a cape with a tall, embroidered collar encircling his neck. Once again we fall into silence as we gaze up at H.I.M., and H.I.M. gazes out at us.
As the Emperor takes his first step, everyone around me bends at the waist into a deep bow, and I know they can no longer see H.I.M. Suddenly I have an odd thought: I’m American and we don’t bow down to monarchs. Or do we?
Still uncertain, I remain upright while H.I.M. descends. As soon as his foot touches ground, everyone around me is no longer merely bowing, they are dropping to
the ground on all fours, hands outstretched in front of their heads. H.I.M. and I are the only two standing, and I’m a half-foot taller. Never have I felt so conspicuous.
H.I.M. picks up his dog and tucks him under his left elbow. The dog’s tiny face peers out from the edge of the cape. H.I.M. begins a slow, straight-shouldered, regal walk on the red carpet, head held high, just as in every photo and newsreel. But seeing him in person, I’m struck by how small he is, a perfectly formed, slim, handsome little man. He and his dog are in perfect proportion. Does he know that? Was that his plan?
H.I.M. walks, chin up, eyes straight ahead, cradling his dog, a walking stick in the right hand. He never looks to either side. I’m hoping there’s a chance I might be less noticeable here in the shade, against the wall at the back of the prostrated crowd.
Suddenly he turns his head sideways, in my direction. Oh, my Lord, those melancholy brown eyes of the Amhara people look into mine. Without thinking, I lower my head and break our gaze. I didn’t know until just now, but clearly I’ve absorbed some cultural etiquette; I should not make direct eye contact with someone from a higher station. It just came naturally to bow my head this way, and I’m glad. It feels right.
I raise my head, and he’s still looking me over. He seems to invite eye contact, and I’m astonished by a brief, discreet look of acknowledgment, as well as a hint of a royal nod. I know I will remember those eyes forever, eyes filled with intelligence, sorrowful patience, and compassion. A deep, bountiful compassion in which I’m certain I am included.
Carol Beddo, a PCV in Ethiopia from 1964-65, returned to her Peace Corps station in 2003. Visiting Bahar Dar nearly forty years later flooded her with memories, and she began to wonder: Who was that young woman? Carol is coming to understand how the experience provided the foundation for the rest of her life as a community activist and as a consultant in public policy, political campaigns and elections. Life with her husband of forty-plus years is rich with family, and she’s grateful that her three grandchildren desire a lot of her time.
Moon Rocket
Robert E. Gribbin
What is the meaning behind the landing on the moon?
I see it in my mind’s eye—from my house in Songhor—wind-blown tufts of light-green sugar cane surging like a great sea on Kenya’s Kanu Plains, washing gently against the thousand-foot heights of the Nandi Escarpment. Thirty miles distant, Lake Victoria Nyanza is glimmering in the late afternoon sun. The image is clear, but complicated by other images, faces, smells, sounds—by the sheer exuberance of memories that so indelibly marked this time in my life.
As a Peace Corps Volunteer in Central Nyanza, I was charged with supervising the construction of a rural water system designed to pipe potable water to 1,200 farms on three government-sponsored Settlement Sugar Schemes. I worked with a group of eight men whom I trained in the skilled work of the project. When resting, we kibitzed and talked. They had many questions.
Maurice always began. With a twinkle in his eye, he probed the differences he reckoned inherent between whites and blacks. He questioned me incessantly about why I had come to Kenya. I’m not sure he ever really understood my response. Presuming that I knew the answer, maybe I couldn’t articulate it well. Altruism was beyond Maurice’s comprehension; a thirst for adventure seemed to be a satisfactory motive.
Another exchange went like this:
“Robert,” Maurice asked, “Is it true that Mzungus (Europeans) eat frogs?”
I pondered. “Yes. Some Mzungus eat frogs, but only the legs. When fried up they taste a bit like chicken.”
Maurice looked skeptical. “Really,” he frowned. “Frogs.” He concluded, “Mzungus are very weird.”
I responded, “You know, Europeans think that eating termites is strange.”
Maurice absorbed this information, then shot back a surprised query. “Why?” he asked. “Termites are good.”
A telling exchange occurred in July 1969. Americans had just landed on the moon. The guys were interested in this news—more so than I had expected.
“So, Robert, is it true that Americans have landed on the moon?”
“Yes,” I responded pointing to the wisp of a moon still visible in the morning sky. “They are up there now.”
This engendered discussion of rocket ships and airplanes, which demonstrated these rural men’s lack of appreciation for the science and the technological accomplishment of the moon trip. Francis, who was more cynical than his colleagues, observed, “If Americans can build airplanes, then certainly they can build a rocket.” He was puzzled, however, that it had taken so long to get to the moon. “After all,” he noted pointing again to the moon, “you can see it right there!” This again raised the question as to whether the landing had really happened.
Ligolo, older, taller and stronger with his front teeth knocked out in the traditional Luo style, and who rarely participated in these exchanges, cleared his throat. The men craned anxiously in his direction when he asked, “So Robert,” he paused, “What color is God?”
I was stunned. I had no context for the question. Yet it obviously lay at the heart of their concern. James, the most worldly of the crew, who sported sunglasses and who had shed his family name Oyier in favor of Bondi, in honor of Agent 007, came to my aid.
“Robert,” he explained, “we Luo people believe that God takes several forms and that he lives, at times, on the moon. The issue goes to the nature of God: if he is good, he is black like Africans. However, if he is evil, he is red. Ligolo’s question is fair. If Americans have gone to the moon, they must have seen God. So, what color is he?”
It was a good question. From further discussion, I learned more about Luo beliefs, but had no answer. We agreed to look together. I brought back international editions of Time and Newsweek from Kisumu the next week, and we scrutinized the stories and pictures for help, but—of course—found none.
I realized afterwards that this had been one of those moments when each of my friends took one more step into the modern world and away from tribal traditions. The trappings of old beliefs diminished in the new reality.
Before too long the issue of God on the moon faded away. Soon Luo owned and operated trucks and buses, and, perhaps subconsciously reflecting this religious heritage, started bearing names like Moon Rocket and Apollo 12.
In the years since, I have reflected often and with sadness on how man’s crowning technological achievement of the twentieth century unintentionally undermined beliefs that had sustained Luo people for generations.
Robert E. Gribben was a PCV in Kenya from 1968-70, building rural water systems at Muhuroni and Hoey’s Bridge. Subsequently, he joined the Foreign Service and went back to Africa off and on for another forty years. He visited his projects several times over the years and found them up and running and well staffed by the men he had trained.
Bury My Shorts at Chamborro Gorge
Thor Hanson
Sometimes our encounters are a little closer than we might find comfortable, though a little less immediately dangerous!
“Just listen to this stomach of mine…. The way it sounds, you’d think I had a hyena inside me.”
—Humphrey Bogart, The African Queen
When Peace Corps Volunteers meet, their conversations follow a pattern as predictable as the phases of the moon.
During my time in Uganda, we would gather in the capital city every few months for some kind of workshop, training, or just to visit and take a break from village life. After the usual greetings and a few stories from the bush, talk invariably turned to the two topics on everyone’s mind—food, and its eventual results. Or, more crudely: what’s going in and how it’s coming out? We all dreamt aloud about supermarkets, pizza delivery and food courts, while at the same time lamenting the sorry condition of our bowels. With roundworms, giardia, amoebas, and other intestinal challenges as common in the Ugan
dan diet as bananas or beans, digestive discussions could prove quite lengthy.
In my work, I spent most days in the forests of Bwindi Impenetrable National Park, where I was habituating mountain gorillas for the park’s fledgling ecotourism project. Sharing lunch (and parasites) from a common bowl with the trackers made me a frequent visitor to the Peace Corps nurse; I had bragging rights to more de-wormings than any other PCV in the country.
I had learned the simple, vital rule of gastric survival in Africa: never trust a fart. Unlike passing gas in the temperate zone, where foul smell is your primary risk, tropical flatulence carries with it a host of embarrassing possibilities. The schoolyard adage “silent, but deadly” becomes more menacing: “silent, but…sorry.”
Many parts of the world suffer from the unfortunate combination of abundant diarrhea and a distinct lack of toilets. In Uganda, every one of us lost a latrine race at one time or another, and sharing these stories became a sort of contact-group ritual at any Peace Corps event. One Volunteer found himself with his pants around his ankles, searching for shrubbery on a busy Kampala street corner. The gate guard from a nearby embassy finally took pity on him, offering soap, bath water, and a clean pair of pants.
Another friend learned to survive long taxi rides by lining his shorts with newspaper, a technique I could have used on a certain day in Queen Elizabeth National Park.
Queen Elizabeth, or “QE,” encompasses nearly two thousand square kilometers of savanna and lowland forest on the floor of the Great Rift Valley. It borders Virunga National Park in Congo (Zaire), making one of the largest contiguous protected areas in all of Africa. As part of the training for our park ranger-guides at Bwindi, I had arranged an exchange program with QE’s Chamborro Gorge, a narrow, forested chasm that snakes through the grasslands from the edge of the rift escarpment to the shores of Kazinga Channel. A fellow Volunteer, Cathy, had spent the past two years habituating Chamborro’s resident chimpanzee population for tourism. The Bwindi rangers and I would spend several days there, seeing Cathy’s project, learning about savanna ecology and chimpanzees, and touring the local community to see how other villages dealt with life on the edge of a national park.