Chapter 1: Ethiopia, East Africa
by Annette Langer
I got my first “taste” of Ethiopia at the welcome dinner for our group. We were seated at large, round tables for ten. A slightly concave, circular woven mat completely covered each table surface. An additional spongy, beige-colored layer lined the mat, extending all the way to its rim. Any questions I may have had about the strange looking double table covering were soon answered.
The waiter emerged from the kitchen bearing a pot containing steaming gobs of meat, hardboiled eggs, vegetables, and a goopy red sauce that he ladled right onto our tabletop. Without speaking, he merely nodded, smiled, and then gestured at the beige thing, making a grasping, pulling motion with his hand, then bringing his fingers up to his lips. Ah, we were supposed to tear off a section of what we thought was the tablecloth lining the mat. Mop up the stew with it and then eat the beige thing, as well.
It didn’t taste like bread, or anything else I’d ever eaten, but that’s what it turned out to be. It had the texture of thin foam, like the packing material you place between the good china dinner plates when storing them. I’m quite sure those foam rubber separators taste no less bland than our tablecloth bread did.
The problem with playing Ethiopian charades is that it failed to communicate that the red goopy stuff can be prepared either fiery hot or mild. Neither the waiter nor our tour escort warned us that ours was not the mild variety. I took a small mouthful of the stew and obediently mopped it up with the beige foam bread thing soaked with Wat—the hottest red sauce I’ve ever eaten in my life. (WHAT?!!!)
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My throat and the lining of my nose burned, and my eyes began to water. I felt as if my stomach would burst into flames. I grabbed my glass of Arakie, a local Ethiopian beverage, and quickly downed it to put out the inferno slowly eating away at my insides. But this new assault on my gullet tasted exactly the way I imagined lighter fluid must. (On the upside, though, it did clear my sinuses.)
The next day offered up a local festival, presided over by several men of distinction. They wore bejeweled silk robes and carried sun umbrellas embellished with more jeweled ornamentation, another symbol of importance. Soon, the emperor arrived in his chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce that made its way to the center of the showground where the entourage waited. He stepped out of the limousine and accepted a torch from one of the men, touching it to a thirty-foot-high pyre of dry timber for the ceremonial lighting of the bonfire. Shortly after the trees burst into flames, the emperor got back into his Rolls, and the limo slowly departed the arena. A formal parade of soldiers in full dress uniform marched behind his car. Then the emperor’s marching brass band brought up the rear of the parade.
There was no seating in the parade ground but just enough room to stand within the crush of people forming a ring around the perimeter. All at once, everyone seemed to push forward to get a glimpse of the emperor as his car made its way past, carrying me forward on the waves of their enthusiasm. The only way to safety was to sidestep quickly—directly into the horn section of the marching band as it passed by. I took refuge there, now an integral part of the parade, and moved on in step with them.
My quick thinking paid off, and I safely exited the field, proudly marching alongside rows of red-jacketed, tassel-shouldered musicians, my head held high. The crowd continued to go wild, and I vividly remember their shouts and cheers and, of course, the lively marching music—clearly not of the John Philip Sousa variety, but quite spirited, nonetheless.
Damn, we were good!