A Loo With a View

We were heading to a project opening near Debre Zeit, about an hour’s drive from Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia. John, then the Canadian ambassador, was going to examine the spanking new water pump Canada had donated, meet the local dignitaries, and demonstrate that Canadians were, in fact, their brothers’ keepers. I was going as loyal consort. And because it was an official trip, we had a driver and a four-wheel drive vehicle to get us over the almost non-existent roads.

It was Sunday and I had had two cups of coffee after church that morning at the Meet & Greet. This was a mistake, and I knew it ten minutes out of town, because the Ethiopian countryside, unlike some more highly developed countries, offers nothing in the way of public amenities. There are no service stations with locked bathrooms, no McDonald’s to sneak into, no roadside cafes, no port-a-poos. And worst of all, on this particular stretch of road, and in the middle of the dry season, no foliage. Not a tree, not a bush, not a shrub, no cactus or even long grass.

But I am accustomed to managing. Indeed, over the years I have lost a good deal of my middle-class bashfulness and am willing to make do under almost any circumstances. Generally on road trips I carry along a large golf umbrella that I take with me when I leave the car and head for a bush. It’s useful for mashing down twigs and spearing the occasional unsightly bits of …. well …. debris. Furthermore, trial and many errors have proven that with some dexterous manoeuvring and a bit of practice, I can artfully twirl this tool in almost any direction to get some privacy. Umbrellas have worked for me on many occasions: in the north of Ghana when, out of nowhere, two trucks loaded with standing, staring workmen suddenly bore down on me; and once, in Nigeria, when a camel train from north Africa suddenly hove into view.

But on this particular afternoon, on the road to Debre Zeit, there was nothing even remotely camouflaging to hide the bits the umbrella wouldn’t cover. I was in trouble. Desperate. Eventually, as I knew we would, we hit one pothole too many and I could stand it no longer.

“STOP!” I shrieked.

Now John’s official driver, Abraha, always knew what this cry meant: that within the next half minute he was to find me a congenial spot, in the shade, near a running stream, where no puff adders or cobras were likely to be lurking. But this was not Abraha, this was Gedamu the office driver, and he did as asked. He simply pulled over and stopped.

Grabbing my umbrella I scrambled frantically out of the car, prepared to make my Ethiopian debut if I had to. But to my utter amazement, there right in front of me were four gigantic and quite uncharacteristic boulders. Delighted, I tore off into a gap between the rocks and there found myself in a magnificent meadow. No tall foliage to protect me, but no livestock and best of all, no people either. Quickly, and out of habit, I snapped my umbrella into place, and made myself comfortable.

Not thirty seconds into my performance I was aware of a somewhat familiar but distant rumble. The sound quickly increased and from my vulnerable vantage point I could suddenly see the train from the small neighbouring country, Djibouti, moving quickly over my horizon. Faster and faster it came, with people and animals pouring out of the windows. I was in no position to move. My red and white striped umbrella was like a flashing beacon, and with the ambassadorial flag waving from the front of our parked car we were virtually advertising ownership of the bare bottom.

Feeling utterly disgraced, I eventually slunk back to the vehicle. The driver, who must surely have known I was heading onto the railway right-of-way and that the Addis-bound Djibouti train would be passing through momentarily, tried hard to stifle any visible emotion. John didn’t dare look even mildly amused, not while I had my umbrella up.

The following day, at lunch with European Union colleagues, I told them my shocking story. By evening, everyone in the diplomatic corps had heard it, along with various embellishments (“…. and the train actually slowed down when they saw her!”, “…. Imagine -- she was in trousers and not a skirt!”, “John tried to drag her back!” “…. Apparently she could hear the laughing for miles!”).

Three days later at a large reception with most of the diplomatic corps in attendance, Father Donald, the young American Catholic priest attached to the Vatican embassy, approached me looking distressed.

“Can I have a private word with you, Alena?” he asked.

“Sure, Donald,” I immediately replied, thinking he needed advice with a moral dilemma, “is something worrying you?”

“Well,” he drawled, lips trembling in a barely suppressed giggle, “I was on the train from Djibouti last Sunday.” Pause. “And I think I may have seen you.”

© Alena Schram
www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com
alenaschram@gmail.com

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