Al didn’t have much time to ponder how the queen’s trip changed the course of Ethiopia’s history. Before he knew it, he found himself over the city of Axum, some two hundred miles to the northeast of Lake Tana. Ethiopia’s queens and emperors had ruled in Axum from 900 BC until 1929, when Haile Selassie had been crowned emperor in Addis Ababa. Pointing up at Al, like giant fingers, were Axum’s hand-carved stone obelisks, the world’s tallest. One once rose one hundred feet. Like Stonehenge, they were architectural marvels and believed to have some solar or astronomical significance. They symbolized Axum’s great historical political power.
Not surprisingly, nearby stood Axum’s Mary of Zion Church, affirming the marriage between church and state throughout Ethiopia’s Christian history. The church claimed to house one of the world’s most cherished religious artifacts, the Ark of the Covenant. Al caught a glimpse of the guards who stood watch inside the fenced compound that surrounded the church, just as others had done for centuries, ever since the ark was said to have been smuggled from the Holy Lands around 900 BC by Menelik I.
Al couldn’t contain himself any longer and cried out—“What are you telling me? I don’t understand! Speak to me! Please!”—to anyone who could hear him. “What is it? Why should I care?” No answer came ... just another stop on his mysterious tour of Ethiopia. It was as if someone was trying to say something to him, but he couldn’t connect the dots.
Al hungered for words from his tour guide, the one who was apparently orchestrating his incredible journey, as he now glided over the city of Dessie, some two hundred miles to the south, where tens of thousands of starving Ethiopians converged on foot to be fed at a regional United Nations shelter. It was stocked with emergency food and supplies from many countries that shipped them to Ethiopia’s Red Sea port of Assab, from where it was trucked across the perilous Danakil to Dessie.
A long drought had led to a famine that had claimed about one hundred thousand lives in several northern Ethiopian provinces that year, along with many more livestock. Al watched briefly as refugees and relief workers created makeshift tents of clear plastic to house new arrivals, before his flight took him over a dirt road leading from the shelter to downtown Dessie. On the road was a United Nation’s Land Rover returning from a village in the highlands where Peace Corps Volunteers had distributed Smallpox vaccine to the last people on earth exposed to the disease. As a result, that summer this deadly disease was quietly eradicated.
The image of the UN Land Rover dissolved to another, which led a limousine as it entered Emperor Haile Selassie’s palace compound in Addis Ababa, 250 miles south of Dessie. Behind the palace was a steel cage with a sleeping lion, the symbol of Haile Selassie’s reign as the Lion of Judah.
From this serene scene, Al flew over a bustling piazza in downtown Addis, where many streets converged into a traffic circle. Thousands of university students walked to the square and chanted demands for their government to reform itself in the face of the deadly famine and poor social programs that kept most of the country’s population living from hand to mouth.
Al’s amazing aerial tour of the country ended as it began, following the dust cloud that trailed the same bus, on the same road that Al had seen on the beginning of his journey. The dust settled as the bus stopped in Nekempte, the capital of Wollega Province.
Nekempte was about 280 miles west of Addis Ababa. As the passengers stepped off the bus, some were greeted warmly by their families and friends. One of those not greeted was a twenty-three-year-old, jeans-clad, bearded, white American who Al immediately recognized as himself. Al was returning from a three-day visit to Addis Ababa. The Nekempte high school where he had taught tenth grade English, had been closed for several weeks due to a nationwide teachers’ strike that had been sparked by dissatisfaction with the school system and the government in general.
The seeds of this political unrest took root at Ethiopia’s sole university, which ironically Haile Selassie had founded in Addis Abba twenty-four years earlier. Ethiopia’s public school teachers, except for a small minority of foreign contract workers, were graduates of the university and sympathized with their brethren’s call for government reform. Just how much protesting would be tolerated by Haile Selassie was a question on the minds of everyone in Ethiopia. Some thought the emperor secretly blessed the call for reform. After all, he had introduced more social and political reforms than anyone else in the history of his country. But now he was an eighty-three-year-old man who was unable to move fast enough to keep up with a more volatile, impatient generation.
Others were not so sure the emperor was content to sit idly as his world slipped away. Amidst the unrest and the speculation, Al tried to do his job, and continued fitting into the community as best he could. It wasn’t easy. There were forces at work beyond his control.
Al pulled his duffle bag from the pile of luggage and walked along downtown Nekempte’s main street, which resembled on old American cowboy town with its row of very simple shops lining each side of a dirt road. He headed for the modest, mud-walled house he rented on the outskirts of town. The sense of well-being he had amassed from savoring his first hot bath in four months, from catching up with some of his Peace Corps colleagues, and from eating at his favorite restaurants—that sense of well-being began to erode shortly after his return to Nekempte.
The young children, who had always greeted him as he’d walk by with gleeful shouts of “foreigngee” if they didn’t know him or “Mr. Al” if they did, were strangely silent now. Instead of running to Al to walk with him while holding his hand to express their friendship, they turned and ran away while looking strangely over their shoulders at him. It was as if they were avoiding him because he had a contagious disease.
“What’s going on?” he asked himself as he continued on his way. The same question popped up when he saw a group of young men huddled in front of the post office down the street. They were shouting and waving their hands wildly at someone in the center of the crowd. At first, it appeared they were attacking someone — a thief perhaps. But when the group dispersed, one by one, each with a newspaper in hand, Al’s questions were answered.
Copies of the daily newspaper, all six pages of it, reported on the latest political turmoil in Addis Ababa. They had arrived on Al’s bus and were all sold in just a few minutes. Those unable to purchase one looked over the shoulders of those with copies.
“Two Government Ministers Arrested” the paper’s headline proclaimed. “Accused of Mismanaging Drought and Schools” read the subheading.
“Mr. Al, how are you? Where have you been?” asked Berhane, a fellow teacher from the same Nekempte school where Al taught. Berhane was holding a copy of the newspaper.
“How are you Ato (Mister) Berhane?” Al replied. “Addis ... I was in Addis for a few days, for a little holiday since our school was closed.”
“How is Addis? Is it safe?”
“What do you mean?” Al wondered.
“The university strike, the government scandals, the reports of shots fired in the streets to breakup student demonstrations. I don’t think it is safe.” Berhane raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t know much about all that. I didn’t see or hear anything.” Al squinted and sighed.
“Oh, I understand,” Berhane said with a sly grin before walking away; but he suddenly stopped and turned back to whisper in Al’s ear, “Long live Haile Selassie and America.”
Al stood there for a moment, a clueless expression spreading across his weary face, before he headed home.
CHAPTER 43
So Many Questions
Between the children running from him and Berhane’s veiled comments, Al knew something strange was going on. That night, over a beer at Ephram’s Buna Bet (Ephram’s Coffee House) in a conversation with his best friend Tadesse Tiruneh, Al’s suspicions were confirmed.
“CIA. They think you are CIA,” Tadesse told Al after a sip of his Melotti beer.
“Me? Are you jok
ing?” Al said with a raised voice and bulging eyes. His words were drowned out for everyone else at Ephram’s by a song blasting from the bar’s boom box.
Tadesse laughed out loud before saying in his broken English, “No! I am not joking you. Some people always suspect that all Peace Corps are really CIA. Now, with all the strikes and whispered rumors about our government and Haile Selassie, people are watching you more than ever.”
“Oh shit! That’s what I need. I just got dysentery for the third time this year and now this. Can there be any more shit in my life?”
“Al, my friend, I thought you were different ... not like all Americans.”
“What do you mean?”
Tadesse hesitated before saying, “A year from now all your shit will still be here but you’ll be back in America. So don’t feel so bad.”
“Oh, so now I’m just another spoiled American who complains about everything when things don’t go my way?”
“No. You’re not like other Americans. You’re here. They’re not. And you’re not soft like many Americans. That’s why I like you, why we’re friends. I need you to be strong now to help me survive the big changes coming in Ethiopia.”
“Please don’t tell me you think I’m CIA, too.”
“No. No. I know better. But you can help me. I can’t trust other Ethiopians because they can report me to the authorities. I’ve seen it happen to others. Some are in prison. Some were killed. Their so-called friends reported them. It’s a dangerous time in Ethiopia,” Tadesse whispered.
“OK. OK. The CIA rumor isn’t that bad, I guess. Your shit is worse. But at least you don’t have dysentery.”
“Who said?”
“Hey. Aren’t you afraid people will get suspicious of you because you’re hanging out with a CIA spy?” Al said tongue-in-cheek.
“Yes and no.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yes, because the stupid ones think that. They are the same people who like things the way they are and have been for generations. They are afraid of change, even though things could change for the better.” Tadesse shook his head as he sipped his beer. “It’s too risky. They don’t like risk. Americans and America scare them because in their dictionary, change and risk mean the same as Americans and America.”
“Do many people think like that?”
“Of course, but not as many as before.”
“So why no? Why aren’t you afraid of what people will do to you or say about you because you’re friends with an American CIA?” Al leaned over, elbow on the table and chin in hand.
“I don’t know,” Tadesse sighed.
“But you just said you know people who have been put in prison and killed.”
“Uh oh! What the hell am I doing, sitting at a table and drinking with you?” Tadesse grinned before becoming philosophical. “I ... I think I have more to gain than to lose.”
“Gain? Like what?”
“You cannot understand. You are an American. You don’t know about being poor, hungry, and sick. Your country is a super power. Every country wants what America has. Nobody wants what Ethiopia has.”
“OK, but I want to understand.”
“Yes. That’s why I like you. That’s why I want to learn about America from you. Maybe it will help me become successful. And I like you because you are humble.”
“Let’s make a deal. I’ll tell you about America, if you tell me about Ethiopia.”
“Ha, ha, ha.... a deal,” Tadesse replied. “Yes, Ethiopians like to make deals too. Maybe we are not so different,” he added before clinking beer bottles with Al.
“Johnny! Go home!” demanded the drunk, well-dressed young man who had walked over to the table where Al and Tadesse were sitting.
Tadesse slowly stood up and positioned himself between the uninvited guest and Al, while looking directly into his glassy eyes.
Tadesse spoke calmly but forcefully in Amharic. It was just a few words, but they were effective. The young man’s face morphed from bold and defiant to sheepish. Then he walked out of Ephram’s as everyone watched with interest.
“What did you say?” Al asked with his mouth opened wide in suspense.
“Buy me a beer and I’ll tell you,” Tadesse chuckled.
“Simi! Layla beerah la ersatcho,” Al barked in Amharic to the nearest waitress, while gesturing with his hand to Tadesse.
“OK. Now, what were you’re magic words, Ato Tadesse?”
“Please don’t be angry with me. I just told him the one thing that would make him go away.”
“Yes? And that one thing is...?” Al asked while thumping his knuckles on the table.
“…That you are a CIA assassin.”
“Man... oh man! You’re going to get me in trouble,” Al said, head in hand.
“No. Don’t worry. Nobody else heard me. He’s not from here. Nobody will believe that you’re an assassin, only that you’re CIA. But I told you, half the people in Nekempte already think that.”
“Who do the others think I am?” Al winced.
“That you’re a lot smarter and richer than you really are.” Tadesse let out a big belly laugh. “Aren’t all Americans geniuses and millionaires? But I know better,” Tadesse whispered as he placed his finger on Al’s heart.
“And who do you think I am?”
Tadesse looked directly into Al’s eyes, grinned, and said, “How would I know? You don’t even know who you are.”
“Ha ha ha. Good answer.”
“Hey, my brother, that gives me an idea,” Tadesse said as the waitress placed a cold bottle of beer next to the two empty ones on the table in front of him. “You have questions about yourself that you would like answered, and I have a couple big questions about our troubled times. There is somebody I think we should go to see.”
“Who?”
“There is an old man, a wise man, who lives by himself about a half day’s walk from here. A few of my students who live in his village told me about him. He’s a mystery. Nobody knows how old he is or where he came from. He arrived in the village about fifteen years ago by himself, with only the clothes on his back, a few simple belongings, a little money, and the deed to about fifty acres of good farm land. The villagers speculated that he had connections to Haile Selassie’s regime because the government owns all the land. The one thing that people do know about him is that he is very wise. He has a gift for solving all kinds of problems.”
“Gift?”
“One of the stories I’ve heard is that he stopped a fight before it started between his adopted village and a neighboring village. Past fights between them had always claimed at least a few lives. The issue, like many before, concerned land. ‘You can’t do that on our land,’ protested one village. ‘It’s not your land!’ shouted back the leaders of the other village. They argued back and forth until they made their usual threats. But this time, something different happened before the inevitable fighting erupted.” Tadesse paused to make sure Al was paying attention.
“What? What happened?”
“The old man, Tsehye, quietly rode up alone on his donkey to the big ancient tree under which the two villages had met to resolve their differences.
“‘I am a poor man,’ Tsehye told them all. ‘The only thing of value I have in this world is my land. It was a gift to me for something I had done many years ago. I have just a few years to live and no one to leave it to. So, I will give it to your two villages, but on one condition: that you must equally work the land and equally share its harvest. To see if this is possible, I will lend half of my land to each village now. All I ask in return is ten-percent of each harvest, which is enough for me to live.
When I die, you will have the land to do with as you will, and keep your entire harvests if you continue to farm it.’”
“That was pretty generous of him,” Al noted.
“Yes, it was. Both villages gladly accepted his offer. But it required free passage across the land
that triggered the dispute on this day. If both villages were to claim their share of Tsehye’s land, they had to share the disputed land, which they agreed to do. And as a result, there was no fighting, no killing, that day. In fact, the villages worked Tsehye’s land without incident for three years. They grew friendlier and closer with each harvest. Following the third harvest, the two villages even celebrated together with a big party filled with food, drink, music, and laughter. That party took place just last week,” Tadesse told Al while studying his face.
“OK. He sounds like somebody I’d like to meet. Who knows, maybe he can help me figure some things out,” Al said. “So how do we find him?
How do you know he’ll talk to us?”
“Questions! Questions! So many questions. I thought Americans have all the answers. Are you sure you’re American?” Tadesse teased Al. “Don’t worry about these things. There’s no school tomorrow. Let’s go early in the morning, when the sun comes up.”
“OK. Nothing to lose.”
CHAPTER 44
Searching for Answers
The next day, Tadesse and Al arrived just outside Tsehye’s village at about noon, after walking some five hours on winding, hilly dirt paths through the rich green countryside on a beautiful sunny day. The handful of people they met along the way greeted them warmly, respectfully, and with various degrees of curiosity. Al distinctly heard the words foriegngee and habashah several times after passing a few groups. Tadesse teased Al after the second time it happened, saying, “Foreigngee?
Foreigngee? Where? Where?” while tapping Al’s shoulder in jest.
Al smiled. “Now I know how Tonto felt.”
“Me Lone Ranger ... you Tonto.” Tadesse chuckled.
“Oh, you know about the Lone Ranger?”
“Of course, and Superman, the Untouchables, and Jim Reeves,” Tadesse added.
“Jim Reeves?”
“Yes. He’s my favorite American singer.”
“Really? I never heard of him.”
“Are you joking me? He sings ‘This World is Not My Home.’”
“Never heard of him or that song. I’m into the Beatles and Bob Dylan.”