“That’s interesting, what you just said about keeping in line within Ethiopia’s feudal system to survive. It is exactly why this author says Ethiopians hide what they really mean when they speak.”
“I didn’t read his book, so I must be very smart,” Affork said with a laugh.
“Yes, but you are wrong about Americans. They do buy books about capitalism. Americans love to read about themselves,” Al said.
“Ha ha ha. You are right. Americans are very interesting people,” Affork said with a sly smile.
“Interesting or self-absorbed?” Al asked.
Affork’s smile suddenly turned sheepish.
CHAPTER 51
Food for Thought
“Hungry? No. I’m starving,” Brenda told Al as they entered Castelli’s, Addis Ababa’s renowned family-owned Italian restaurant. Greeting them just a few steps in, along with six other Peace Corps volunteers who were together for dinner, was a buffet table full of Italian delicacies like assorted sliced cold cuts and cheeses, salads, fruits, and breads.
“Pinch me,” Brenda told Al. “Aahwooo. You didn’t have to do that,” she scolded Al after he pinched her arm.
“Yes I did. You were about to dive on that table,” Al replied.
Ethiopia’s public schools, which had been closed off and on throughout the year due to teacher strikes, just started their three-month summer break. PCV teachers from around the country were converging on Addis Ababa to eat meals they could only get in Addis and to compare notes with the colleagues and friends they trained with before scattering to their assigned schools nine months earlier. This meal would cost each the equivalent of a day’s pay, but they gladly paid it to satisfy their appetites for foods they loved but could only dream about for the past year.
The distinct aromas of Italian spices—like oregano and garlic, mingled with those of the hard salami, parmesan cheese, and freshly baked, hard-crusted bread—made them even hungrier, if that were possible, as they walked past the buffet to their table. Despite the relatively high cost to dine at Castelli’s, reservations had to be made at least three days in advance to secure a place-setting.
At tables around theirs were an assortment of well-dressed foreign-gees, a few distinguished-looking Ethiopians in Western clothes, and one elderly Italian man, sitting by himself at a small table in the far corner. He was reading an Italian newspaper and sipping a glass of red wine. The PCVs, dressed in jeans, sweatshirts, and hiking shoes, looked out of place.
“Hey, Carl, what’s this I hear about you climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro over summer break?” Al said loudly, with great interest. Any heads in Castelli’s that had not been already facing them were now. “Don’t these people know how to dress and behave in a fine restaurant?” their eyes seemed to say.
“It was either that or take the train to Harar and watch that guy feed the wild hyenas on the street with raw meat hanging out of his mouth,” Carl told Al in a softer voice, taking cues from the other diners as the PCVs sat at their table.
“I’m doin’ it, too,” Jim chimed in. “It was time to put up or shut up.”
“What are you talking about?” Al asked.
“We both read The Snows of Kilimanjaro this year,” Carl told Al. “The story sucked. It was about a guy who was dying. But while he was dying, he thought about all the things he did and didn’t do in his life, regrets and all that. We don’t want to be like him and have any regrets. With Kilimanjaro so close in Tanzania, it’s calling us now to climb it. How cool would it be to tell my grandkids, ‘Yeah, your grandpa climbed to the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro’?”
“What do you know about climbing mountains?” Al asked.
“Nothing. Don’t need to. Kilimanjaro takes lots of stamina, but not much else if you go with a guide who knows the trails,” Jim replied.
“So nobody’s died or got hurt climbing it?” Al quizzed.
“I didn’t say that,” Carl chuckled.
“Here are your menus. What would you like to drink?” the waiter inquired.
“I’ll have your house Chablis, and those two will have Hemingways,” Brenda said with a smirk.
“I’m sorry, we don’t—” the waiter began to reply before Carl interrupted.
“Don’t listen to her. I’ll have a glass of your cheapest Chianti,” Carl said.
After everyone else ordered their drinks, Sheila deadpanned, “Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention”—borrowing a line from the hit Frank Sinatra song “My Way.”
“You don’t get it. The challenge, facing all the adversities in climbing to the top, finding out if I got what it takes. I make it all the way and who knows what’s next. Maybe it’ll give me the courage I’ll need to settle down, get a real job, get married and raise a family,” Carl said passionately with a wink of his eye.
“I don’t know, but I’ve climbed a few no-name mountains this year at my school and in my town,” Al offered. “I’m sure you all had some of these, too.”
“It’s not the same. You said it; they’re no-name mountains. I want to climb mountains with names like Kilimanjaro that everybody recognizes. When I return to the States after my time here is up, nobody is going to understand or appreciate the skills, the strength, the smarts, and everything else needed to survive and perform as a PCV in this place at this time, but tell anyone I climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro and their jaws will drop,” Jim declared.
“Glory? You want glory? Is that what it’s about?” Brenda scolded.
“You make it sound so cheap. What’s wrong with getting recognition for doing something extraordinary?” Carl said in Jim’s defense.
“Nothing, except when you’d do one thing rather than something else just to score more points. It sounds like you think climbing Kilimanjaro is more important than teaching our students,” Brenda clarified.
“Whoa. I didn’t come here to climb Kilimanjaro. It’s an afterthought. I’m doing both,” Carl said.
“All right, you two, time to order,” Sheila interrupted. “I don’t know about everybody else, but I can’t make up my mind. How about each of us ordering something different so we can share and taste it all?”
“Good idea. Right now I wish I had two stomachs,” Hank said and everyone else nodded.
Soon platters of steaming spaghetti and meatballs, ravioli, lasagna, eggplant parmesan, antipasto, and chicken cacciatore arrived along with a huge bottle of Chianti. They were passed around the table until all plates and glasses were full, but not for long. As the food and wine disappeared, the conversation became more animated and intense. It was as if the chef infused his creations with a truth serum, or maybe it was just the wine talking.
“Lately, I’ve been asking myself, ‘What are you doing here?’ I think I came to get out of my comfort zone, you know, to stretch myself and hopefully make a positive difference in some lives,” Carrie said. “Well, I’ve definitely done some stretching, but what good will it do me in the States to have mastered the art of using an outhouse that doesn’t have a seat, just a hole in the ground? How much above minimum wage will I be paid in the States to teach English as a second language? Making a positive difference in the lives of Ethiopians? You’ve got to be kidding when they think so much of what we’re doing that the schools have been closed half the time we’ve been here.”
“Yeah, but just think, we’ve learned how to live with a lot less,” Tim smiled.
“I hope you’re planning to stay and live in Ethiopia, because the last time I checked, no running water and seat-less outhouses are not economical housing options in the States,” Jim replied. “And living with a lot less is not the American dream.”
“Hey, Carl, I’m sorry if what I said before about you climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro sounded judgmental. I wasn’t really directing my comments at you. I was directing them more at myself because I want the glory but feel guilty about wanting it,” Brenda confessed.
“You know something .... I understand,” Carl told her.
“We’re all achievers or else we wouldn’t be here, traveling to the beat of a different drummer. It’s too bad our accomplishments, our victories, get lost in day-to-day living. Hell, we’ll never know if anything we said or did here will really matter. If we’re lucky, we’ve planted seeds that take root and bear fruit years from now.”
“You’ve been reading more than The Snows of Kilimanjaro,” Brenda said.
“Ha ha ha. Lots of time to read this year,” Carl quipped.
“I don’t have plans for summer break. Could I join you guys on your trip to Kilimanjaro?” Brenda asked sincerely.
“You’re serious?” Carl replied.
“I’m not talking about climbing it. I’d just like to see it and all the sights along the way.”
“Sure, but on one condition. You’ve got to read The Snows of Kilimanjaro before we leave in three days.”
“OK. If I have to,” Brenda agreed with a pained look. “I think I ate too much.”
“I guess you’re not starving anymore,” Al teased.
CHAPTER 52
Metaphors Galore
“Speaking of feeling guilty, do any of you feel strange eating all this food while so many people in the northern provinces are starving?” Wally asked as he sipped his wine and stared down at his once full plate.
“You know, I’m glad you didn’t bring up the famine before we ate,” Al said, rolling his eyes.
“Maybe we should have ordered our dinners to go and had them shipped on the first bus headed north,” Jim added with a smirk.
“Guilty? Why should any of us feel guilty?” Gerry asked. “If anybody should feel guilty, it’s the Ethiopian government. Did you hear about that documentary a British filmmaker made? He smuggled film he shot in the drought area out of the country. If it weren’t for his documentary, nobody in the rest of the world would even know about it.”
“Yeah, my friend in Nekempte told me about the film,” Al said. “Haile Selassie’s ministers hid the famine from the emperor because they feared it would reflect badly on them. Can you imagine that? As if doing nothing to prevent the famine wasn’t bad enough, they pretended like it didn’t happen. When I was a kid, I broke a neighbor’s window with a baseball by accident. Pretending it didn’t happen eventually caught up to me. My dad put two and two together before taking money from my newspaper route earnings to pay for the new window. I hope the ministers learn the same lesson and pay with their jobs,” Al said as he sipped the rest of his wine.
“Hello. You are Americans, yes? I have some very good American friends,” said the middle-aged Ethiopian man, dressed impeccably in a suit and tie. He had just finished his meal and was on his way out of Castelli’s with his wife, who continued walking to the exit. “One of my favorite American songs is ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight.’ Be careful, my friends. It is night now, but the lion is not sleeping,” he said while squinting his eyes. Then he smiled and walked away.
“What was that all about?” Tim wondered.
“You heard the man. The lion isn’t sleeping. I knew that,” Carl said before singing “A wheember wepp a wheember wepp.”
“Makes sense to me. A shoeshine boy told me the other day that Tarzan doesn’t live here,” Al added.
“Ever notice that about Ethiopians? You get the feeling that they’re speaking to you in riddles or something,” Sheila noted. “Maybe that’s how they learned to speak English. Hey, why don’t we all start using riddles to help our students learn when school starts again in the fall?”
“There you go. We’ll adapt our curriculum to their culture,” Al suggested.
“Funny, but lately I’ve been wondering if it’s going to be a problem fitting back into American culture when we return,” Carrie said. “I mean, life here is beginning to feel normal. I really like eating injera and wat. Where am I going to get it in the States?”
“I don’t believe you said that!” Jim exclaimed. “I was just thinking about opening a chain of Ethiopian fast-food restaurants called Kebede’s Kitchen. I’ll sell injera as Ethiopian pizza. Think about it. The injera, the bread, is about the same size and shape as pizza. The wat, or sauces, would be delivered in separate containers along with it instead of baked on like the pizza toppings.”
“Sign me up. I’ll be your first franchisee,” Carrie said, rolling her eyes.
“No, really. They said the same thing about Mexican food. Now taco places are everywhere,” Jim said with conviction. “Can’t you see it?”
“You may have something there,” Tim offered. “In Michigan, we’ve got Little Caesar’s pizza. How about The Emperor’s Injera?” he added before cracking up.
“OK. Have your fun now. I can see I’m the only visionary here,” Jim declared.
“No. No. Not so fast,” Al said as he rubbed his hands over the round base of the empty Chianti bottle on the table in front of him. “You are not the only visionary among us. My crystal ball is telling me that Nixon won’t serve his full term.”
“Serves him right for calling Peace Corps service a junket,” Brenda declared. “You don’t say crap like that without suffering the consequences.”
“Hello? Watergate. Even the shoeshine boys are telling me about Watergate,” Al reminded them.
“I know, Watergate. I’m saying that both the Watergate cover-up and Nixon’s comment about the Peace Corps showed poor judgment. He didn’t have to answer for the Peace Corps slam but he is answering now for the other. Eventually, poor judgment, lies, and injustices reveal themselves,” Brenda clarified.
“Who have you been reading lately? Tolstoy? Dostoyevsky? Kafka?” Sheila asked.
“No. My dad. I vented some frustrations in my last letter home and he just shared some of his. I quoted him almost word for word,” Brenda said. “And in case you’re wondering, he wasn’t talking about Nixon. He was talking about the company he works for. Hell, that’s why I joined the Peace Corps. There was a job with my name on it at that same company. Half the people in my town work for it, but I didn’t want any part of it. I wanted something else, and here I am in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.”
“I know what you mean,” Al said. “I don’t come from a small town, but I wanted out, too. And this is about as different as it gets from New York City. At first, Addis looked like a modern city with its traffic jams and all, but then the water, which you can’t drink, stops running in your hotel’s bathroom, so you can’t even flush your toilet, and you look out your hotel window and see some guy herding a bunch of sheep through the street.”
“Why did you want to leave New York? What a great place ... so much going on. I’m thinking about moving there after this to look for a job,” Carl said. “Doesn’t it have running water everywhere that you can drink? Oh, I know, it doesn’t have any sheep herders.”
“You know, New York is a great place, but I wasn’t in a great place the last couple years I was there,” Al said. “I needed a change of scenery. This past year has given me that and more,” he added while brushing his hair back with a hand, smiling, and closing his eyes.
“New York is far, far away,” Al said softly.
“Am I the only one who came here even though I was a happy camper back home?” Tim asked, somewhat amazed.
“Probably. So why did you?” Sheila replied.
“Ethiopia fascinated me in college. It was part of my world history and my anthropology courses,” Tim said. “I had to check it out, and Peace Corps was my ticket. I’m spending my summer break touring Axum, Lalibela, Lake Tana, and other sites up north. Can’t wait.”
“Aren’t they in the famine area?” Al asked.
“Some reports include them in it; others don’t. I’ll cross that bridge when or if I have to,” Tim replied.
“I haven’t made any plans for the break,” Al said with remorse. “I’m looking for something that would be a unique experience, an adventure, a once-in-a-lifetime thing ... something that tests me, builds character.”
“You’re alread
y a PCV in Ethiopia, so it sounds like your only other option is to climb Kilimanjaro with us,” Carl said as if stating the obvious. “That is if you don’t mind the glory that comes along with it,” he added with a wink for Brenda.
“Glory? No, man, glory is good.” Al said, nodding.
“OK, then you and Brenda just need to clear it with the Peace Corps office and get the necessary papers,” Carl told them.
“I was going to get a health checkup there tomorrow. I’ll do it then,” Al said. “Thanks. Climbing Kilimanjaro never crossed my mind. I’m excited.”
CHAPTER 53
The Greater Challenge
“No. Not you, too? You don’t really want to climb that mountain,” the assistant director of Peace Corps Ethiopia told Al the next morning at the PCV office, a modest two-story home that had been converted to an administration facility and clinic on the main road, just south of Addis. “That mountain will always be there. I’ve got a mountain I need you to help move now,” he added light-heartedly.
“Does the mountain have a name?” Al asked.
“Hmm,” pondered Bill Walker before nodding. “Yes. Its name is Famine Relief. A mountain of food and supplies are piling up at the port of Assab. Shipments from around the world are coming in faster than they can be distributed. We need someone to manage the United Nations’ warehouse/distribution center in Dessie.”
“Why me? I don’t have any experience doing that?” Al said.
“You can count. You can write. You know enough Amharic to tell the laborers how to load the trucks going to the twenty-two famine relief shelters and unload those coming in from Assab. You’re qualified,” Bill told Al.
Al stood silently, looking into Bill’s eyes, waiting for him to say something else. But he didn’t. His eyes seemed to say, You wanted a mountain with a name and I just gave it to you. After an awkward pause, Al said, “I really want to climb Kilimanjaro. Isn’t there anyone else who could manage the warehouse?”
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