By Steven Uanna

My Childhood in Addis Ababa 1958 – 1961

Editor’s Note: This is the second installment in a three-part memoir of an American who grew up in Addis Ababa from 1958-1961. The author recounts a series of events that occurred during his childhood, his experiences and that of his family, and the expatriate community in the capital.

Whenever my father had free time he wanted to go camping and he took me along. My mother went with us a few times and that was all. Usually, Mr. Piero and other families from the embassy went too. My father bought a new 1959 Willys Jeep. This Jeep had kilometers on a speedometer that went up to 140. If the Chevrolet was a tortoise the Jeep was a mountain goat had the heart of a lion, there was not much that could stop it. Other campers used Jeeps, Land Rovers, and VW Beetles. Mr. John had a “German Jeep.” But if you didn’t know the terrain and wanted to get back “you better take the Jeep.” Getting cars was difficult in Addis. And that was not all. Appliances like refrigerators and washing machines usually came in with new personnel who sold them when their tour was over.

My father and the Marines built a boat from a kit ordered from Sears and Roebuck that was shipped in on the Djibouti-Addis Railway. It came with instructions in a box along with a small motor and a trailer. Another thing shipped from Sears was guns. Automatic 12 gauge shotguns were popular along with 30/06 and 22 rifles. Guns were always kept in zippered cases and hidden while traveling and camping. Cameras were hidden too. Ethiopians don’t like to be photographed, especially by people with diplomatic DPL license tags. The guns were unpacked deep in the outback to hunt wild boar, gazelle, or guinea hen. I would sit in the back of the Jeep wearing a bandolier of ammunition. Ethiopian guides would come out of nowhere carrying their spears that had long steel points. They didn’t want money, not even a Maria Theresa dollar, they wanted our tin cans or whatever we were going to leave behind where we camped. They were very dependable and well mannered and would make one beer last all night. And they knew where the game warden was. We only saw the warden once. An Ethiopian man in short pants, an Australian type cowboy hat and wearing a pistol. We assured him we didn’t have the guns that were hidden in the back of the Jeep. There was a lot of “game” in Ethiopia. And hunters with DPL tags were probably not who the warden was looking for anyway. There was an underground market for cheetah and lion skins in Addis and for guns too. And any American product from the Commissary or PX or that was shipped in from America was in great demand. There was no television transmitted in Addis but there was a demand for record players and radios. Also cosmetics, clothing, cigarettes, and alcohol. Beer, wine, and whiskey. Johnny Walker whiskey was especially popular for some reason. Tuborg and Heineken beer were available. My mother preferred Pabst Blue Ribbon. No pop tops, you cut 2 slots in the can with an opener everyone called a “church key.”

The American community was kept informed in Addis by a bi-weekly 2-page newsletter called THE LIONS ROAR. And THE ETHIOPIAN HERALD was a daily newspaper published in Addis Ababa. It contained an article about my father. At the time I didn’t know he had gone back to America to manage the security for Soviet Prime Minister Khrushchev’s state visit to America in September 1959. The article also described his duties on the Manhattan Project. He never talked about it. All I knew was my mother said “Daddy protected the Atomic Bomb.”

Most Embassy men were handy and so were the women. My mother and some other wives made some of their own clothes from Butterick patterns on their own sewing machines. Household goods and clothes were given or loaned between the wives and notes of thanks were sent. Folding card tables and chairs and space heaters were loaned around. Once a railroad bridge washed out on the Djibouti-Addis railroad and delayed Commissary shipments for a few weeks. Certain items were rationed and it was requested that purchases be made on a week to week basis and only the essentials.

Since there was no television in Addis almost everyone had a record player. My father was an electronics wizard and had built the cabinets and the stereo that we had. Its speakers were big enough for a stadium. We played it in the evenings and at our parties and people danced. It hummed while warming up and shook the walls with songs like Tennessee Ernie Ford’s “Sixteen Tons.” My mother explained the song was about a hard-working coal miner who worked for a company that didn’t pay him enough. He was always in debt to the store that the company owned and he had to keep working. She had seen this kind of thing growing up in Knoxville. She was not ashamed of where she came from and when an embassy wife asked her “What finishing school did you go to?” she replied “Strayers Business College” where she had learned typing and shorthand. She could be blunt and after she drank a few Pabst Blue Ribbons, more blunt. Another song that played was by Louis Prima and his Swing band. My father liked “Louie” Prima. “Civilization Bongo, bongo, bongo” was a song about a man who compared living in the jungle to living in what was called civilization. It was a funny song that made you think. And since there was “trouble” in the Belgian Congo at that time it attracted more interest. “Bongo bongo bongo I don’t want to leave the Congo.” We had Ethiopian records that Bogale liked to listen to while he worked. These were thick 78 rpm records instead of the thin 33 rpm. My mother worked hard with the embassy wives and gave very large successful parties. A wedding reception for my father’s secretary who married a Marine Security Guard was probably her biggest and best. She knew protocol and manners. But being a secretary at the Pentagon and a first tour Embassy Wife did not prepare her for the dark side of diplomacy. That was something my father knew all about. He had been involved in intelligence and security since America entered WW II in 1941.

Like the day a car honked its horn outside our compound and my father and I went out. “Poor Bud” my mother said later “he didn’t know that car was stolen, he gave the man some gasoline, ha ha ha.” Yes, the car was stolen and then abandoned at the Kabana River. But there was more to that story. My father and I had been in his workshop. He was soldering small devices made out of transistors. He did this from time to time. Tiny little things. The smoke from the soldier was mixing with the smoke from the cigarette in his lips when we heard the horn. The Ethiopian man was very excited and my father said “get it out of here.” They said a few words and my father went to the carport and got a gas can and emptied out the gas next to the wall. We went back and the man put a roll of papers in the can, then he jumped in the car and sped off. My father went to his workshop and put the can inside and locked the door. The car was a big black 1959 Chevrolet Impala. The man was the Tej drinker laying next to the fire at the embassy.

At one of the Embassy Wives meetings the ambassador’s wife suggested that since the wives were donating their November 1959 Bridge Game winning’s to the Filowa Hospital their husband’s poker game winnings should be donated too. I don’t think that happened.

There were bars in Addis like the King George and Mike’s where the American men drank and played cards. And our neighbor Mr. Don and a man who lived on the embassy compound named Mr. Peter had a club of their own called Che Juge. With fancy invitations and passes to the club that suggested dress appropriate for Riverboat or backroom Casino… these were poker parties. My father lost 90 dollars Ethie and told them to find another “sucker.” Mr. Don said, “Can I borrow your poker chips?” Around this time there was excitement about an investment opportunity someone at the Embassy was promoting. It was called Investors Overseas Services – IOS. “It’s a racket” my father said. “Don’t say that, this is a great opportunity” he was told. “No thank you, it’s not legit (legitimate).” he said. It took another decade but IOS unraveled into an international scandal.

Mr. Don had three kids around my age. Nancy, Timmy and Martha who was my “girl friend.” Martha was a spunky Tomboy and a lot of fun. Behind us was an Ethiopian family with a boy and girl my age. And also an American Army Sergeant and his family. Sergeant Joe’s son Joe Jr. was my playmate and grew up to be an Army Sergeant himself. He was among the hostages taken when the American Embassy in Iran was overrun during President Carter’s Administration.

From somewhere in the countryside around my house came two Ethiopian boys a little older than me named Nagush and Gusaheim.

And occasionally another boy, Ababa. Ababa and his father had some type of grudge about the land our house was on. When our Ethiopian landlord came by and saw me playing with Nagush and Gusaheim he was shocked. “You let him play with them?” My mother said “why not?”

Negash and Gusaheim taught me to crack a whip, swing a slingshot and climb a eucalyptus tree. And they took me with them for “Hoya hoya yenegeta!” They were teaching me to speak Amharic too. And I was teaching them English.

I was learning to write Amharic at Nazareth school but I was doing much better speaking it. I was moving beyond curse words. My mother never did. One day she yelled a curse she learned from me. She knew what it meant. Yelem Beka Fesam Hid Koshasha – No Enough Fart Go Trash. The Ethiopian man outside the Commissary did not appreciate it and spit on her. There was no getting around paying to have your car guarded and she paid after that. Having DPL license tags could be a blessing and curse. She never learned much more Amharic except Ishee (yes) and yelem (no) and Tenastelin (God be with you). I said Tenataling, close enough. In my child’s mind Tenastelin was like a magic word, to be used for good. We had nothing in English to compare to it.

Nazareth School was totally different than the English School. There were 75 kids in the class at one point from all the diplomatic communities. There were American, Armenian, Greek, Italian, Indian… and Ethiopians. My teacher was Sister Martha. She wore a grey knee-length skirt and a white shirt with a grey vest. She was helped by an Armenian girl about 16 years old. We learned by repetition. Sister Martha would tap at the board with a stick and say 9 times 9 is 81 and we would shout it back. I knew my 12 times tables by the end of the first grade. Repetition was going on in other classrooms all day long and you could hear them doing it. In American schools you are told once and that’s it. Reverend Mother Loiseau (Luwizo) ran Nazareth School with a rod of iron. My mother had given her some Guinea Hens and also loaned her our Jeep with a driver once. I hoped this would keep me out of her office. When a series of earthquakes rocked Addis Sister Martha asked my father if Nazareth School could stand it. “Yes“ he assured her. I never went to Mother Loiseau’s office but I got my hand hit with the ruler by Sister Martha and got it hit hard for buying homemade candy through the school fence from the old Ethiopian man. That delicious pure sugar candy, the sugar covered almonds from the diplomatic parties and the chewing gum from the mastika house at the top of our street sent me in Empress Zauditu Hospital to have a rotten tooth pulled out. No novocaine, Ether poured over gauze on my nose. Torture. I started brushing my teeth more after that but I still snuck up to the mastika house, and still begged my mother for candy from the Commissary and the shops in Addis. Chocolate from the Commissary often had white streaks, it got hot on the trip to Addis. Candy in the stores in Addis was from countries around the Mediterranean Sea and tasted better anyway.