Untitled Document
The Peace Corps nurse knows where we can get a real
tree. Five days before the 25th of December, with Tsegaw as interpreter,
Clark collects our Ruth and Tommy and they all pile into the family Beetle
to find the spot she has described: Aba Samuel’s slaughterhouse.
The slaughterhouse is south of town, between Gondar
and the airport. Built with help from Israel, it provides kosher meat for
Ethiopia and other parts of nearby Africa. Our kosher canned corned beef
that’s packed in Asmara comes from Aba Samuel’s. When we see
the young bearded men, wearing black hats and black cloaks and carrying
black briefcases, arrive at the tiny airport on the afternoon plane from
Asmara, we know that it’s time for the slaughter. Families here in
Gondar know the young men and enjoy their visits.
Finding the Christmas tree is one of Clark’s
favorite stories. The drive into Aba Samuel’s is short but winding
and steep. Shaded groves of giant fir trees, which we’ve been told
were planted by Italians during the occupation in the 1930s, line the way.
It’s hard to believe that the firs are that old, but Italians have
been in Ethiopia, either as invaders or entrepreneurs, since much earlier
— ever since the late 19th century. In recent decades they’ve
lived here building houses and running hotels. I can imagine them
developing this slaughterhouse, fir trees and all, to have dependable
supplies for their meatpacking businesses and customers, both Jewish and
otherwise, up in Eritrea, especially in Asmara (said to be very European
and beautiful).
At the slaughterhouse Clark and his entourage are met
by a guard — a tall, thin man dressed in brown trousers and a uniform
jacket. He speaks no English, just Amharic, but with Tsegaw’s help
they ask whether this is where “forengees” can buy a Christmas
tree. The guard marches off, behind the building, and up a steep hill
covered in 60-foot firs. He asks whether this is what they are looking for.
Yes it is, Clark answers. But they must go to the Princess Tenagnework
Vegetable Farm to get permission from the manager before a tree can be cut.
The Princess Tenagnework Vegetable Farm is located on
land belonging to the oldest daughter of Emperor Haile Selassie I, Lion of
Judah. Early each morning and last thing each afternoon, an open-bed truck
comes into town bearing cabbage, carrots, Swiss chard, potatoes, oranges,
tomatoes, and sometimes zucchini, maize, limes, papayas, or shallots.
As Tsegaw suggests, Clark gives the guard 10 cents.
They head out for the vegetable farm. The farm office is empty. By the time
Tsegaw finds a worker in a far field, the sun is going down. They are
directed to the barn, where the assistant manager is taking care of a small
herd of Jersey milk cows from the United States. He tells them that the
manager has already left for Gondar with the evening’s load of
vegetables.
Clark piles everyone back into our Beetle to drive to
the tiny vegetable shop in the center of town. By now it is 7:30 and dark.
With no streetlights and very few store lights, Gondar is very dark, but
the vegetable shop is still open for business. The tree-seekers explain
their mission, and the clerk directs them into the shadows toward the back,
saying that the manager is in the next room.
Clark knocks as instructed on an unpainted door.
Tsegaw interprets the response: “Sir, they are saying we may
enter.” They all crowd into an even smaller room, lit with one
low-wattage bulb in the center of the ceiling. The floor is dirt. The walls
are of chicka construction
— saplings filled in with mud.
Five men are crowded around a small table, each
wrapped in heavy white homespun against the cold night air. The men appear
surprised. Clark thinks that he, Tsegaw and the two children must look
strange to them, appearing suddenly out of the dark.
Tsegaw speaks first, bowing slightly and making the
traditional greetings that are necessary when entering into the company of
important people. The men around the table greet Clark in return and
gesture that he should sit down with them.
Clark returns with the children so late that I have
already gone to talk with our neighbor, Ato Makonnen, about driving out to
search for them. Clark reports that Tsegaw did a good job helping him
explain their mission. They have permission to buy a tree. One of those
60-foot firs will be made into a 10-foot Christmas tree. Clark wonders
whether it will fit into our house. We may have to put it up outside in the
garden.
The next afternoon, all four return to the
slaughterhouse. An elderly man, nearly naked except for a brief pair of
shorts, leads them up a hill. He jams a small hand scythe into his belt and
pulls himself quickly up into one of the trees. They watch as he climbs up,
up, up. Then he disappears into the foliage, high in the trees. Clark
estimates that he is 40 or 50 feet up. Chopping noises begin. Finally a
head pops out from among the branches, a hand waves everyone away, and the
man lets it fall. Our Christmas tree, 15 feet of old Italian fir, slowly
somersaults from the sky.
Barb Olson is a Springfield writer currently working on a book about her experiences in Ethiopia.
Barb Olson is a Springfield writer currently working on a book about her experiences in Ethiopia.
