by R E Kearney
Walking toward the hotel while watching Evoil attempt to hide his stain of fear, Robert chuckles as he remembers a statement by Ernest Gaines, “The mark of fear is not easily removed.” He wonders if Gaines meant wet pants, as well as a man’s conscience and reputation. Too bad for Evoil, he has to worry about all three.
At a rickety table outside the hotel, Komfort hastily establishes communications with Amesha. She wants to learn what she needs as rapidly as possible to avoid detection by ARTAS. She is not succeeding. Villagers are already starting to gather to inspect these outsiders.
Amesha appears wearing a grin. “Hello. Enjoying your trip?”
“No. No we’re not, Komfort angrily answers. “Your hand-picked drivers led us into an ARTAS ambush. We’re lucky to be alive. Now, we’re in Bonga and I imagine that they’re not far behind us. We need…”
“I don’t understand. They’ve always been faithful to me. They were loyal when you left. What happened?”
Impatiently, she continues, “Evoil happened. He hit them with a strong dose of American fundamentalist Christian bigotry and hate, and they didn’t appreciate it. But that’s really not important, now. We need help. We’re still a long way from the plantation and I know ARTAS is searching for us. We need a different vehicle and some backroads that ARTAS doesn’t know about.”
“Let me do some checking Mugavus. You’ve caught me unprepared,” Amesha concentrates on his desk computer.
Looking away from Amesha’s image, Komfort finds herself encircled by curious villagers. She smiles at the swarm and weakly waves, “Hurry. I’m attracting too much attention.”
“Ok. Here’s what I can do for you. On the other side of Bonga is a small coffee farm called Diamond enterprise. SPEA’s worked with them in the past. They owe us. They should have a vehicle to loan you. To get there, take the exterior road. Turn left out of the hotel and then turn right when the road splits into three. Take the far right road. Follow it around. Diamond will be on your left. Got it?”
“Ok. We’ll find it. What about backroads?”
“Bad news there. Highway Six is the only road there and it isn’t too good. Narrow, all-weather dirt and winding. You have the Omo River National Park on one side. It has no major roads. On the other side of Highway Six is the Kaffa Biosphere Reserve. It also has no roads. But, past the Biosphere, about sixty kilometers from Bonga, is the road to Shishinda. Tepi is sixty-seven kilometers past Shishinda on that road. It’s not much of a road, though. Highway Six is a little better.”
“Thanks. We’ll decide when we get there. If we get there. Anything else?”
“Yes. A couple of things you should know.” Amesha references his desk monitor, “Authorities found another retired US general dead. General Anarmódios. He commanded troops in the Nordic War and reportedly is a member of Abaddon’s traitorous ten. Died under strange circumstances when his auto crushed him against his house.
Abaddon is accusing the Russians. But, members of the US military and Nordic War veterans suspect Abaddon. Together, they’re staging a protest march to the White House tomorrow. Could be more than half a million people. It’s very tense there. Abaddon is threatening, as he described it, a convincingly conclusive response.”
“You have nothing but bad news, Amesha. Anymore?”
“Last thing. According to a message relayed from Venus, somebody named Pion is desperate to talk to you. That’s it. That’s all I know.”
“Thanks. That’s more than enough. I’ll contact Pion,” Amesha disintegrates as Komfort shuts down.
Chattering loudly, the villagers crowd closer. Apprehensively, Komfort searches the surging throng for Robert, Dag and Evoil. She spots Dag. Sensing her distress, Dag pushes through the mob to join her. Gluing herself to his broad back and striding in step, she follows the big man to the Rover. Waiting next to it, Robert chats with four local men. Evoil hides, alone and locked inside.
“Robert!” Komfort shouts, as they approach, “You need to drive. I have to contact Pion. I’ll give you directions.”
Robert throws up his hands, “Oh no! I haven’t driven for years. All my cars are driverless.”
“Dag, can you drive?”
“Yes, I can drive. I will drive,” Dag pounds on the window for Evoil to unlock the Rover and then swiftly scrambles into the driver’s seat.
“Good. Let’s go.” Roughly brushing past three babbling Bongans, Komfort clambers into the Rover’s rear seat next to Robert. “Dag, turn left out of the hotel and then turn right when the road splits into three. Take the far right road. Follow it until you see a Diamond Enterprise sign on your left. It’s a small coffee farm. Go there.”
Dag honks and bumps his way through the mob and onto the main road. Komfort activates her PCD to interface with Komfort-bot inside the plantation. Looking through Komfort-bot’s camera-eyes, she locates Pion working alone in the control room.
“Pion. This is Magus. Do you want to speak to me?”
Startled, but pleased, Pion bends toward Komfort-bot. In a terrified, beseeching voice she whispers, “Are you coming? Are you close?”
“Yes, I’m coming. What is wrong?”
“I have worries. Tena is healed. She’s demanding revenge against the Kokos. I can no longer control her.”
“I understand. Komfort-bot will…”
Pion leans closer and hisses in a rushed voice, “AIDAS drew the President’s card. It’s AIDAS’ turn and it drew the President. Hurry Magus. I need you. Hurry! AIDAS is going to kill the…”
Pion disappears. Komfort’s PCD visual goes dead. No signal. Silence.
Chapter 26.
Trekking
Cranky. In a rush, Komfort traded SPEA’s Rover for an ancient, chunk of tin on tires that the owner described as being a bit cranky. Cranky is unbelievably ugly, but she runs, barely. She squeezes four onto her broken-spring seats and, as a benefit, has a truck bed, only partially rusted through, for stowing their supplies. Cranky is so old her manufacturer’s name has rotted off along with large chunks of her paint. She is dented and rusty and dusty and the perfect camouflage for four foreigners attempting to hide in the open. Burping blue smoke with each grinding, shifting of gears, Cranky limps out of Bonga and wobbles onto Highway Six.
Dag pushes Cranky to her top speed of fifty miles an hour. She complains boisterously. Holes in her muffler and her exhaust pipe give her a loud, roaring voice that drowns out all other sounds and assaults ears. Cool, dry air whistles through Cranky’s cab, stirring the dust inside into a swirling, stinging grit.
Using a rag he finds on the floor, Robert scrapes a coating of crud from his door’s window. Many layers remain, leaving the window blurry. He examines the countryside and the people they pass. Nobody notices them. Cranky creates their cloak of invisibility.
Rocking and rolling past the entrance to the Kaffa Biosphere Reserve, Robert recalls reading how it was established to preserve Ethiopia’s natural flora and fauna. He longs for an opportunity to get lost in its evergreen forests and swim its hot springs before drought destroys them. To escape the tension and turmoil of today would be ecstasy. Then the dry wind whisks away his wishes, depositing dust into his eyes.
“SPEA is considering buying this bankrupt tea plantation,” Komfort yells over Cranky’s noise as she points past Robert at rows and rows of grass-choked, greenish-brown bushes climbing the terraced hillsides. “This plantation shut down due to a lack of investment. Growing tea takes too long for average investors to recoup their money. If SPEA doesn’t save this place, nobody will. To install the environment and robotic equipment necessary to overcome the weather challenges here, SPEA will need a huge investment and then wait a minimum of three years for the bushes to mature before harvesting and selling any leaves. Nobody else is big enough and rich enough. Either we save it or it disappears back into the brush.”
Deep in the tea bushes, Robert glimpses a solitary, bent, elderly woman picking tea leaves. “What about the indiv
iduals living around here or farmers like that man with the oxen we passed during your roller coaster ride to Bonga? Where does he go? What does he do?”
“He starves Robert. He starves. And the rest of the world starves with him. That man can’t feed himself or his family with what he can grow by himself in today’s climate and economy. Small farmers are obsolete. SPEA feeds millions, not one or two. Six billion people can’t survive on what small farmers can grow. That’s why the world is at war with itself, right now. Not enough food.”
"Worrying about wars because there’s not enough food is what I understand spurred biologist Doctor Norman Borlaug to say that you can't build a peaceful world on empty stomachs and human misery. Then he won a Nobel Peace-prize developing specialty crops to grow in poor nations like Ethiopia. But that was more than thirty years ago. What happened? More people are starving and the battles for food and water are worsening and bloodier than ever. If people can’t even grow specially designed food crops in this heat and dust, then what can they do?"
Komfort reflects for a moment, “Well, he can grow khat and sell it for far more money than he needs to buy the food he can’t grow. Khat’s easy to grow and it’s profitable.”
“If he doesn’t chew it all first, you mean. Khat’s an excellent drug for helping the poor forget about being poor and the hungry forget about being hungry.” Robert jokes.
“It’s also an excellent drug for helping the poor be less poor, too. They’re growing it all over this part of southern Ethiopia. Cash crop for them. Only crop for most of them.”
Komfort motions across the landscape. “Did you know that more than eighty-seven percent of Ethiopia's citizens are impoverished? Ethiopia is the second-most populous nation in Africa, as well as the second-poorest in the whole world. So, if they want to grow a little khat and chew a little khat, who am I to say it’s wrong?”
Coming alive, Dag shouts, “Chewing khat would be much better for Russians than the way we’re poisoning ourselves with vodka. We’re dying by the millions. Drinking ourselves to death.”
“That’s because you’re Godless communists.” Evoil loudly preaches, “Without God, life has no purpose, and without purpose, life has no meaning."
Dag chortles, “I haven’t heard anybody call Russians godless communists for years…since last century. Your mind really is lost in the distant past, isn’t it? You just don’t…”
“Wait a minute now,” Komfort interrupts. “You know Dag, although it pains me, for once I have to say Evoil makes a semi-valid point. My fellow psychologists’ biggest concern is suicide. Suicide is epidemic in the developed nations along with drug use and alcoholism.”
She points at a man pushing a cart along the road. “Unlike that man, who has never known anything different and never will and struggles just to find enough to eat each day, Sists in developed nations are beginning to realize that now is as good as it’s going to ever be for them as well. Except, there are no life threatening challenges or mental challenges remaining for them. They’re recognizing that for them there is nothing more than this. They see no place for themselves in the future. If they have jobs, and many don’t and won’t, it’s menial, mindless, low paying work that a robot may soon be doing instead of them.”
“Well then, aren’t we the lucky ones to be facing challenges that may kill us, so we aren’t suicidal,” Robert teases sarcastically. “Of course, I would always appreciate knowing a little more about these deadly challenges I will be facing. You know, just for the fun of it.”
Activating her PCD, Komfort attempts to reestablish communications with Pion at the plantation. She fails. Next, she elicits help from Amesha. Amesha tells her that, regrettably, he has no additional information about Pion’s situation and that he attempted to reestablish contact earlier, as well, without success.
As they near the street village of Dimbira, Dag calls out for a driving decision, “Do I stay on Highway Six or turn onto the road to Shishinda?”
“”There are reports of rebel activity in the countryside around both routes,” Amesha shouts through Komfort’s PCD. “Also, the airports at Tepi and Mizan Teferi are still classified as unsafe because of rebel activity.”
“Are the rebels operating inside Mizan Teferi?” Komfort inquires.
“Not that I know. Actually, they only show themselves for supply raids and, occasionally, to free members from jail. If they don’t live in Mizan and Tepi, I imagine they have sympathizers or spies operating there.”
“Dag, stay on Highway Six,” Komfort directs. “We’re not taking the road less traveled this trip.
“Oh, and there’s one more thing, you need to know. Either route you take, you’re headed into a nasty thunderstorm. They’re predicting strong winds and lightening. Regular monsoon. First rain, for them in three months. So be careful, it will make the road dust as slippery as ice.”
“Thanks Amesha. We’re continuing on Highway Six, so if you learn anything new, contact me. Also, please continue trying to raise Pion.” She de-energizes her PCD.
Scenery surrounding Highway Six rapidly grows repetitively boring, especially when viewed through Cranky’s grime encrusted windows. From a mosaic of varying shades of green and brown, primitive, round-house hamlets emerge and then melt away. Bent and boney men and women scratch at small, dry plots bordering their round houses. Occasionally, tin roofed dwellings, shacks and sheds hugging a lonely cell tower appear and disappear. A montage of stressed trees, browning bushes and wilted crops complete the landscape tableau.
The first rain drops hit Cranky’s windshield ten minutes south of Dimbira. Less than one mile later, they are fighting their way through a deluge. Cranky’s timeworn windshield wipers struggle valiantly, but are no match for the torrential rain. Her headlights glow like two dim candles in a cavern. Dag struggles to see five feet in front of his bumper. Wind gust driven water smacks Cranky’s side, shoving her toward the road’s edge and then releasing her to wander back to the road’s middle.
Cautiously crawling along, Dag carefully pilots them through the monsoon to Kufe where it slows to a severe thunderstorm. Crowding the road, thirsting women joyfully watch this rare rain splatter and splash into their pots and dishes. Naked young children giggle and dance as nature’s shower washes away days of dust. They wave and shout as Cranky passes.
Other villagers lounge on their porches enjoying the rain’s return and wondering about the sanity of Cranky’s occupants. They shake their heads at these people foolish enough to challenge this storm instead of stopping and enjoying it. Cranky is no longer just another old Ethiopian truck, now it is an obvious oddity. Conspicuous as the only truck on the road.
By Mizan Teferi, the all-weather but unpaved, road wears a coat of slick scum. As Amesha warned, the drenching rain has converted yesterday’s dust into today’s slippery slime. Deep water ponds in the town’s mud side streets. It is treacherous traveling. Dag battles to keep Cranky from sliding off the road.
“I wonder if any of those guys are rebels.” Robert points to four men squatting in an open shed, intently watching them pass while talking into their PCDs.
“Rebels of convenience, I call them.” Komfort peers past Robert. “They’re similar to Jackal packs. Primarily opportunistic scavengers, but they do attack the weak and small, sometimes. They make more threats and noise than anything else. They’re part of the political process down here. A little rebellion gains them government attention, and with government attention comes subsidies, food and medical supplies. They are rebels with a cause. Survival.”
“Oh, so they’re just the town’s politicized poachers.” Robert forces a wide fake smile toward three different men wiling away their day under a rain-shedding, shack roof. As they approach, Robert watches one man using his PCD to video record their passage. The other two men slowly slink away into the shadows.
“You’re basically correct. I call it Rebel Economics. It’s cheaper to feed them than to fight them and cheaper to buy
them than to bury them. They just want a little sliver of the pie.”
“True, until the money runs out, that works,” Dag adds while battling to keep Cranky straight. “But, both you and I know that in the Middle East when the oil and oil funded subsidies ended, their wars began. Now, they have no oil, no subsidies, no governments and no peace.”
“Why don’t you just shut up and drive?” Evoil angrily snaps at Dag, ‘You soft-hearted, soft-headed idiots make me sick. Let them die. We don’t need them.”
Halfway through Mizan Teferi, Highway Six abruptly converts into route fifty-three. As bad as Highway Six is, it is a boulevard compared to the wide trail of packed dirt named route fifty-three. Under this storm’s drowning onslaught, the road’s packed dirt is slushy sludge, clinging and clawing and sucking Cranky toward the ditch.
“Is this correct? Is this the route?” Dag probes as he battles to keep Cranky on the road and mushing ahead.
“Not much farther Dag. About seventeen kilometers.” Komfort grits her teeth. “Then it gets worse. At Shecko Branch, we take a supply road into the bush to the plantation. It’s on the edge of the Conservation Biosphere. Watch for a mosque, then turn left at the first road.”
“More Muslims?” Evoil growls.
“Yes, more Muslims, Evoil. Also Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church Christians and some Animists. Mostly Orthodox Ethiopian Christians, though. Does that make you happy?”
“They’re not American Evangelical Christians, so they’re not actually Christians.”
Sardonically, Komfort and Robert shake their heads in weary disgust. Evoil’s obstinate, intolerant devotion to his prejudiced opinions never wavers. His indoctrination into the unremitting hatred and intolerance of the Righteous Rightists is all-embracing. He loathes everyone, but himself.
Keeping Cranky proceeding toward Shecko Branch on the increasingly treacherous road exhausts Dag. He pushes his eyes as near to the windshield as possible. The rain diminishes to a shower. But, it does little to improve his discernment of the road. Sliding left and then right, he urges Cranky through the curves, twists and bends. Climbing slopes and hills challenges her bald tires into mud-slinging spins. Dag wrestles her whining transmission into annoyed obedience.
