It was an unexpected night in a Transport Hub. Now, that could be construed for a sleek stainless steel waiting room where one gets oxygen and freeze dried jerky before launching off to catch the Rolling Stones Re-Reunion tour at the Microsoft InterGalactic Stadium in Springfield, Mars. For those unable to win tickets, however, the hub is merely one of those hamlets that owe their existence to the intersection of major thruways. In days yonder, when 'yonder' had some real clout, these hamlets became the heads of empires, controlling trade routes that offered the only available passage for a region's goods while building architectural masterpieces to attest for their ever growing wealth. On one such historical route, the much hyped Silk Route 66, a dozen or so cultures, each with their own unique hubs, lay waiting to excise tax and offer discount coupons to The Great Wall and Kabul Factory Outlets. Today, many of these towns, whether in America or Africa, have come to serve a contrarian purpose to their historical predecessors. They remind passers through and overnighters that their life ain't that bad afterall. These modern hubs serve as living proof for those who argue that man is biologically cruel and unloving. But maybe those people just don't have an appreciation for goat fritter pecan clusters and all you can eat four day leftovers for a really really low price.
Before the privileged traveler can enjoy the one street wonder’s tantalizing treats, ye need a room. Apparently, Ethiopian buses don't run at night. For both the unfenced livestock and unsecured passenger, that may be the finest policy Ethiopia has implemented since their decision to ban Angelina Jolie from kidnapping any more local children.
The guesthouse room was one of eight intimate laminated closets nestled in a three story office building. Upon exiting the refined intimacy, I couldn't locate my new local friend, a college student on his way home, who seemed unable to control his enthusiasm and apparently made his way to the downstairs bistro and brothel. I was taken by the wall of photographs visible up the open air stair well.
An older man was surveying my photograph examining technique for minutes until he cordially invited me to enter inside the office. This new wall of photos was broken into categories labeled in English, a welcome relief to the foreigner, who is normally left in bewildered trance at the local Ethiopian script which resembles the drunken cave drawings of a dyslexic child. The various sections spoke to such universal concerns as Family Planning, Agriculture & Resource Management, Literacy Education, Young Wife Training, and the never before seen Fistula Program. Pictures depicted community style meetings, people in classrooms and in the fields, and a variety of headshots. Off to the left side, by the office manager's door, was a sizeable USAID banner. Did somebody steal that? Could the same government that forces it’s own kids to die in somebody else’s war actually be promoting the welfare of children in other countries? Amber waves of muthafuckin’ grain. I’m American. Hey, buddy, over here. Yeah, this whole project is from My people. Ya know, that pen was probably paid for by my personal tax dollars. But don’t worry, you can keep it. Just remember, that’s a gift, from me, an AMERICAN. For the first time since getting mistaken for a Belgian by drunken Dutch hooligans, I was screaming Yankee Doodle Dandee to all those who would listen. Now I could finally pledge allegiance without crossing my fingers. How did the USARMY’s alter ego end upstairs from my squalid pension? Salvation comes in unexpected places. Tonight, I would be American. Hey Sir. Sir. Can I get that USAID shirt you’re wearing? Seriously, I’m an American now. And I don’t own anything to let the people know from whence I came. Look, technically, it belongs to me anyway. Godbless America.
Then, I started asking myself why the USAID department was never accused of spreading AIDS in Africa. Afterall, America had the earliest known cases that came from Africa, and with USAID being in Africa for so long, it only seems conspiratorially logical that the same Wackenuts that suggested America introduced Crack into the American cities to decimate the poor black populations would continue their theories of bigoted discrimination to the motherland. Fucking idiots. If America really wanted to eradicate the black urban menace, why would it not simply ban welfare instead of curtailing it, which merely substituted 'unemployed' for 'physically and/or mentally injured.’ One bill passage would have been a lot easier then that underground Rock facility they have been trying to clandestinely run in Watts for the last twenty five years. Why has no intellectually gifted theorist come forward to suggest the same government introduced crystal meth to wipe out the rural mullet population? Does anyone truly think that the White Trash contingency is any more desirable in society then the Urban Gangsta?
Before I could delve further into the alleged mastermindings of an inept government incapable of keeping secrets, a pair of horn rimmed glasses assisted by a neat goatee, a fine accoutrement to any black male, came to my side. Any man in a poor nation who chooses to wear glasses guarantees you'll be getting to hear some English, and maybe even get to luxuriate in full sentence structures. The goatee promises authority and suave handling of the female subordinates. Although, on a white man, it sometimes only promises Douchebag.
Yes indeed, the projects I was looking at were funded by USAID, and administered with a local organization. That apparently just meant that there weren't enough Americans available for this region, so these guys crafted a group. Otherwise, the funding would be lost. But he continued to laud the efforts of the US government, and a little bit of Billy Ray Cyrus pride began weeping through my Assembled in the U.S.A.Made in China button-down. In this particular region, he said, unwanted pregnancies were down, cheap access to a variety of birth control, including arm implants (norplant) for married women, were readily available and used, and people were beginning to have less children, a problem Ethiopia has been trying to overcome for generations. Didn't the Bush administration say that only abstinence promoted education programs would be funded? No, my spectacled servant declared. These programs were currently running with the full knowledge of the American government. Stars and Stripes forever. The program leader was quite inspiring as he shared a variety of success stories. Unfortunately, Ethiopia didn't have the resources to get the prophylactics available inexpensively, nor did it possess the knowledge to properly educate about both family planning and agricultural practices. The local organization was hoping to eventually take over as the educator with the information it was learning. But what the hell was this Fistula all about?
My new buddy pushed his specs forward, tucked in the goatee, and let loose a small smile. Didn't I know? What? Ethiopia is home to the largest clitoris re-attachment and surgical center in the world, after the United States, of course. Maybe you’ll eventually overtake them. Just start recruiting clits from other countries. That's how our universities get such high rankings. He explained that the photos were local citizens who were selected to receive surgery. That one photo in the corner was a group shot of them returning on the Clit Bus. The problem of female circumcision was still an issue, especially in rural areas, and it has been practiced throughout the country for hundreds of years, if not longer. He informed the naïve listener that it’s not merely a circumcision but often times it’s a botched surgery that impairs the urinary tract and disturbs the birth canal. Sometimes their education efforts are wasted on families who refuse to break age-old tradition, and the only option is to bring women who have moved away from home into the modern clinics for post operative surgery. I had heard about the horrors of female circumcision for years, and now I was in the epicenter of the global clit cutting culture, the African Horn, or more precisely, a small office in a dingy crossroads town. This encounter was proof that education and local initiative could rescue the world's most maligned continent. America was actually doing something beneficial without economic incentive. People's lives were changing for the better all because other people were willing to help them out of a sincere concern for their futures. But all I could think about was: How do you sexually satisfy a Clitless woman?
This new quandary quickly overwhelmed my born-again Americana . Would she merely gain a more sensitive vagina? Perhaps, like the Blind or Deaf, one of her other senses would reach superhuman potential. Maybe her ear canal would turn into a highly receptive sexual orifice. A suitor would simply lick his (or her) finger and WetWilly it, making sure to provide nice even thrusts in her gyrating ear drum. How did a man (or yes, a woman…and that's the last time a parenthetical aside gets added…no vocabulary rich word has been introduced to replace the dreaded he/she and it only degrades the entire species, so deal with the lesbo thwarting 'he'), yeah, a man, raised on the finer aspects of clitoral respect, suddenly adapt to this new brand of female? Now I know how those Science teachers felt when they told them to stop teaching that Pluto is a planet. The entire Solar System has been ruined. Years of training spent on such valuable tools as the 'circle and jab', the 'bunny rabbit rub', and the 'stick and flick' become completely worthless. The seasoned male gets BillyMadisoned back to Junior High where he's forced to awkwardly learn the basics all over again. And what if you want to avoid the clitless? Is there a way to discreetly glance at a woman's crotch to determine if she is without that crucial nub of sensual delight? Is this how women who prefer certain dick sizes feel? Shit, and the whole post 80's move away from tight jeans must have really hurt their cause. A demure blonde account executive in the market for a moderately thick nine inch slapper has a time consuming process that may not get her a love slave in time for Tammy’s really awesome annual Oscar party. Guys forget their fortunate position since the death of the Eisenhower years. Everything he wants physically is available for easy walk by inspection. Granted, the padded push-up bra is finally due for some tough legislation, as many a man has unclasped into a sternum of stealthy deception while his primal inclination to spill his ching has forced him into politely feigning indifference while his inner demons contemplate posting his False Prophet's counterfeit cha-chas on the ever popular misleadingmelons.com website. In a culture full of clitless women, can an aspiring date simply ask as to the status of one's clit? Maybe some guys would like that, as a major part of their foreplay can be removed enabling them more horizontal mirror time. Did the clitless girls ever wonder why their clit bearing comrades were so eager to ride the Donkey to market? So many questions. Perhaps, and a mere perhaps, a solution to Africa's never ending problems lies in how to satisfy a land potentially devoid of a Progress making organ that outsider's have been assuming it has had naturally? Anyway, what was life like with these clitless women?
Samuel, who I met bumping heads in the back of the bus, had spent the last twenty minutes in silence as my thoughts left our rudimentary English existence. He was your typical mild-mannered Ethiopian male with a strong adherence to his culture's intolerance of bodily noises. "Sorry. I couldn't hold it in any longer." "We are not liking this here. You must know the Ethiopian are not like this." "Sorry."
He talked about his forced enrollment in the Geography program, since his preferred choice of Accounting had all available seats taken. Like many local students, his education was being funded by the government with the expectation leaning on future paycheck garnishments to reimburse their generosity. Poor guy, he was awfully sullen for a college boy. Didn't anybody tell him these were the best years of his life? Maybe that doesn’t apply to the Ethiopian university experience. This is the problem with nice kids raised with morals by strong families. They don’t understand the value of bong hits and aborted threesomes. Apparently, his family was covering up the whereabouts of one particular sister. She had been ill for years, and he hadn't been able to get in contact with her for the last three months. He feared she had passed away, but in order to promote his studies, the family didn't want him to find out until he was home on semester break. How do you snap a guy from that funk? Clits.
"So, do you have a girlfriend at school?"
Blushing, then quickly becoming quite animated, with a smile like thing appearing around his teeth. "Yes. I am having one girl. She is nice."
"How did you meet her?"
"We are study library. I am make touch her feet under table. She laugh. I am take her mobile number. We meet again. And again. Now she is for me."
"Are you having sex?"
Giggles, then silence. "I am a Christian. Before I am go to school I am deacon in church. I respect very much my religion and my family. You must not speak my family. You are promise. Yes, we are have sex."
"That's great. Really, great. Does she have a clit?"
"I am not understand."
I drew a quick picture. "Have you seen something like this before?"
"You are make a small church. Of course, many time."
I pictionary-ed my way further. "This. Is she having this?'
"I not know. I never see."
"You've never felt something Down There when you're touching her or licking her that makes her excited."
He laughs. "I am not doing this. We are just have sex."
"So you have never seen or felt her special area where you put your penis?"
"No. I am not interest to do this. I am like to have sex."
Ouch. This may be a harder research project then I imagined. My hope was that Samuel was going to be an exception in the quest for satisfying without the little pink riding hood.
A couple of days later, an untypically short and broad 26 year old man befriended me at a local hotel turn whorehouseBar. Most small Ethiopian hotels served the getting laid community; a reality when the Unmarried share single room houses with their parents, and the married share single room houses with sex defying spouses. The potential room still reeked of cheap perfume and dried beer spill. He offered to accompany me to another hotel. He didn't work there, but just wanted to help me find the right space. Naturally, I was suspicious of his motives. My pants were a little a too tight that day. But like most Ethiopians, he proved genuine, and seemed to simply enjoy meeting foreigners. He was a waiter at a hotel beyond my budget range, and liked sharing anecdotes about which foreigners did what at the hotel. The Indians were always complaining and then trying to get out of paying. The Italians were very loud but they made him laugh. The Americans tipped the most, even though he knew that he wouldn't be getting one from me. Many Africans carried around an attitude of superiority he thought was unwarranted. And then there was his favorite, a particular French guest, who was some sort of diplomat. The man had been ordering room service for weeks without returning the silverware. One day, the maid decided to inspect carefully, and she found a suitcase full of spoons and forks tucked underneath his bed. The General Manager demanded the utensil usurping froggie relinquish his pinched prongs immediately. He refused. In the middle of the night, the lobby staff watched in amazement as he vacated the premises with the Samsonite of Stolen Silverware.
My waiter buddy, Haile, was the real deal. People from all walks of life were constantly recognizing him on the street, and in customary fashion, he would slightly bow his head before shaking hands and touching shoulders. If someone is looking to scam you no one in the vicinity will know them. Unless they’re mob collections guys. Everyone knows the local mob collection guy. But you need an economy to have a mob. You never heard about the Russian mob during Kruschev’s time. So, I figured I was safe. We even went back to his rented room, which at twenty bucks a month on a hundred dollar monthly salary, seemed to be a fair arrangement. One wall was flanked by large Jesus posters. The other wall was protected by a giant unicorn soaring through the air. And the last non widowed wall featured everyone's favorite Rasta, Robert SpliffExcuse Marley. A room says a lot. But our acquaintanceship had evolved into a circle of trust. Time to share your clit battles.
"I am not with any girls. I am a Christian."
"C'mon, any guy with a giant unicorn on his wall is getting action."
"This was gift. From girl. But not that type girl."
"You're a stud. I see all these people stopping you on the street. I don't know if you’re the local aspirin pusher, or some sort of government agent, but people like you. Just tell me about one of the girls you've been with."
"I am tell you. They are all my friend. I am not make sex or do anything with them."
I think I understood what was going on here. "Haile. I promise you. I am a friend. I will not tell to anybody, and I can promise you also, as somebody who closely resembles our Saviour, Jesus Christ, that God will forgive you. It's a very common violation. You don't thing J.C. died a virgin, do you? C'mon, I just want to hear about one of your experiences."
"What. What you want to know."
"Yeah. Now we are talking my little Unicorn friend. I want to know what sex is like with a clitless woman. Well, that is if she is not having such thing."
"I not understand. What kind woman is this? I am see these movie with a woman and horse. I am not like that."
I explained the culture of circumcision and my interest in finding out about people's encounters with such women.
"I never have see before. I not know. It is very dark when we are have sex. She not say to me she is not have it but I am not see so I not know."
"Haven't you ever tasted the girl there, maybe noticed some reaction?"
"You are crazy, yes. Are you the crazy white man. You are the crazy white man. My family has tell to me I am to keep from the crazy white man. [Laughs…again…]I tell you I am not like in the movie. This is not permitted our culture. I am have sex not eat or do some other thing there."
"You guys are really missing out. Hasn't anybody introduced dim lighting to the bedroom? Does the woman make screaming sounds during the sex, like, 'ohohoh' or 'ahahah' or maybe yell something about God or yourself."
"Have you not have sex before. Why you ask this thing. Yes, she make a heavy breath and take much air. She is not talk about God or have loud noises. She is lie there and I make it to her. Then we have finish. I not understand white man sometime.You are a strange man."
This was like asking people with serious colds to describe the flavors they taste. My initial curiosity was slowly growing into a fixation. There were throngs of clitless cuties out there, and somebody must have found a way to truly satisfy them.
I spent the next afternoon sitting at one of the city's ubiquitous outdoor cafés, watching mini armadas of smartly dressed women pass up and down the street, completely oblivious to the lecherous Caucasian ogling their veiled vadjes. Goddamn, it was hard to tell who still had the little pink hood. There was no outwardly visible sign like those gross Polio inoculation marks certain people sport. Not a single piece of attire provided hint of the unspeakable surgery. Maybe I should just put up a sign in the local Amharic language asking for volunteers to share their clitless climax tales, with the chance to win a highly coveted marriage visa. Which…would make an excellent reality show for the local market. A twist on the esteemed Bachelor, where the female contestants would vie for the chance to nab their economic freedom. Ratings will demand the male come from the lowest ranks of desirability, maybe a potbellied pockfaced middleaged Mohawk sporting KuKluxKlansman with a stump leg who lisps his way into their clitless green card fantasies.
I finally had a woman friend. Well, more like a boss, but a woman I could talk to. She was the proprietor of a private school for children aged four thru eight. She was a sixty year old Ethiopian feminist, which I think made her something of a rarity and a potential clitless satisfaction expert. She held advance degrees in Biology (adding to her special clitless corresponding credentials), and her husband was a Mathematics professor. They were both lifelong educators with a goal of bringing quality education to the local population. Their children were doctoral candidates in American universities. We could probably classify this family as highly educated. They had taken me in as their first ever volunteer English teacher. Why?
"We have been looking for someone that is a native English speaker, so that the children will learn to speak in the correct way."
"This makes sense. But I met your current English teacher, and he speaks pretty fluently without any serious flaws in his pronunciation."
"Yes, yes, we know this. It is why he works here. But we are trying to build a top program. To build this program, you must, really you must have native speakers. If the parents know that the school have a native English speaker then they will pay more money. Now, in Addis, the top private school belong to one American woman. She has the best school. Really, you should see it. It is a beautiful place, that has very very high population, and she is making a lot of money. Really, you are not believing the amount of money that this American lady is making."
The husband quickly chimed in, "One day, that will be us. We are only five years old and look at our program now."
She was quite modern in her thoughts about the environment. She avoided the new wave of processed foods invading the country, and cared deeply about protecting the remaining wildlife. Her dream was to provide a small farm at the school so the kids could learn about the local animals. "Yes, really, this would be good if we can do this. It would be such a good way for them to learn, and we could keep the school open on weekends for other children to see. They would pay, of course, but not too much. Then, we would also be able to charge more for our tuition."
I felt they may have had White Man Admiration Syndrome, something that afflicts a large swath of the continent. The affliction works like this: When an African chances a white person, they automatically see some sort of financial benefit for themselves. Their complete willingness to not discriminate means that middle aged crew cut suits are seen on par with slacker hippies in stained shorts. Why would such an educated family be afflicted by the masses myopia? "We are wanting to know if you have some contact at the United Nations, or if not, at a large Non-Government Organization that may be willing to provide us with money so that we can make the school to international standards. They can become our partner. And they will have a program that is providing many local children with a strong education. Really, they will be so proud of us. Then, we may have the number one school in the city. The American woman will be very surprised."
I could see our conversation would not easily swerve into the forgotten biological field of clitless satisfaction. Actually, the more she talked United Nations expansion project in her backyard, the more I started to wonder as to the status of my host's own little pink riding hood. I guess we both had our afflictions.
The school was a series of pre-fabbed rooms with cute little wooden Little House on the Prairie writing desks, where posters of animals and alphabets crowded the corrugated walls. The children showed me, a previously unknown entity, so much respect, that teaching appeared to be the admirable profession one might imagine. Enthusiasm to speak English was rampant, and despite really lackluster 'Simon Says' skills, the children were constantly fighting to practice their English with me. And in a feat of humanity currently unknown in the pedophile fearing West, the kids would line up at the end of class to kiss me goodbye. These were the kind of kids people need to put in "Why Have Kids" ads, marketed by African NGO's to the jaded Western overworking urban female who sees children as a scourge destined to ruin her pilates classes and Thursday night Cosmos with the girls. The adulation from the students was so touching, that it wasn't until weeks end that I realized many of my suitors may have been clitless. Ok. That was wrong.
Each morning's session followed with a private lunch cooked by the same woman who was running this operation. Our conversations would run the spectrum of your usual 'what's wrong and how can we fix it' situations foreigners usually find themselves in when discussing anything with the locals of an impoverished nation. But there was one topic that confounded me: Rising costs and increasing pay requests.
Particularly, the HeadMistress was perturbed over the audacity of the local Maid and Cleaning population to demand salary increases. Until very recently, she was paying 150 Birr (15 bucks) a month for a servant, which included a place for her to sleep. But today, with these crazy escalating demands, women with no experience were commanding that amount, and women with actual knowledge were trying to get at least 300 Birr. This was completely unacceptable. She should not, and could not pay such a sum. She was struggling. Struggling? She was living in a huge house, on inherited property, where the school also rested, and had a 140 student enrollment, and no children currently being supported by her. So instead of paying the extra 15 dollars a month, she was cooking until she could figure out a solution. The following day she embarked on a rant about the rural farmers abusing new mobile phone technology to call into local vendors to set daily or weekly prices based on their productivity and current demand. Before, she noted, they would be forced to drive into the city, and having to rely on public transport, it would be a time consuming process, and prices would take much longer to change. This concerned me. And would continue to weigh on me for the next couple of weeks. The wealthy population, quite the powerhouse without any recognizable middle class, was reputed for their non-philanthropic ways and continued insistence on keeping salaries at rock bottom prices so that they could live easy lives. The market places were full of living examples where the Haves would be demanding 1 Birr (10 cents) lower prices on their multi-kilo purchases from the Have-Not vendors, irregardless of rising fuel costs. Waitstaff were routinely stiffed on service, and large Four Wheel Drives, often funded by NGO's, were driven with privileged abandon throughout the city. In regards to the future, the future of Ethiopia and of the continent, the whole premise was a bit sickening, especially when taken together with an Educated elite run school, already a success, searching frantically for more ways to financially capitalize, no matter what the other costs. Can't we just talk about some clitless love making.
"I am surprised you ask me about this. We are living in the city. This is not something that has been done here for a very long time. In the country, maybe, some people are still doing it, but the city people it is not so."
"Ok, that means, I assume, that you are in full possession of your, you know. Thing. But being a woman, and biology teacher, how can somebody sexually satisfy these women because I am sure there must be a way."
"I am sorry, but for this I do not have an answer. Yes, sure, they are having sex, I am sure of it, but to make an orgasm, if that is what you ask, I can not be sure. Maybe it does not happen. You should know that the woman can have pleasure many ways, not only from the clitoris. It is only the most sensitive and most common area for such thing but there are other ways. And even with the normal women, there are many men here who are not able to make this satisfaction. But we are not talking of it. Just something part of the life. [laughing] I am an older lady now, so I don't even think of such things any more. How are you think of this things?"
"Just curious about local culture, that's all. I'm leaving you my email address. If you come across anyone who has found a way to pleasure nicely these women, or been satisfied in a way in which they wish to share, please have them contact me. There may be a green card in it for them. Thanks."
The following day, while attempting to get lost in the city, a graying middle aged man with a small writing pad approached me. He spoke in positive tones, rather then the oft too encountered tale of dire financial woes, and explicitly stated his gratitude for having the opportunity to meet an American. In turn, I explicitly stated my gratitude for meeting yet another Ethiopian who would attempt to use our brief encounter as a means to secure an American entry visa. He promised he would do his best.
After my walking accomplice made sure to pay his salutatory respects to some concealed Orthodox church beyond normal human view, he happily shared his personal details. He was a native of the northern most region of the country bordering Eritrea, where his grandparents were born. His emigration to the capital city intended to help foster his refugee application status. Like most Africans, food, shelter, and designer Chinese casual wear was not enough to sustain his starving wants. He yearned to emigrate to a Western nation, principally Sweden. His innate fondness for streamlined teak furnishings and promiscuous blonde women could only be served in that sub-arctic monarchy of socialist vodka and boxed car safety. And the Swedes would only accept him as an Eritrean refugee. If it was found out he actually resided in the wealthy oasis of Ethiopia, he would not be allowed admittance, exiled from the pecuniary promises of monthly payments bequeathed upon all refugees as a national assuaging of guilt for their perfect complexions and unlimited access to nutritious herring snacks. So…he had to continually keep tabs on his refugee forms with Swedish authorities until he was given notice of his airlift, which would meet him in Sudan. If he missed the pick-up date, like Jon Rambo in Afghanistan, he would be ineligible for another airlift as the Swedes expect their refugees to follow directions. If they are unable to follow directions, then they are not welcome in the Nordic Nirvana as it is assumed they would fail their citizenship test which consists of an IKEA instruction manual, three sheets of synthetic wood, 42 pegs, a piece of metal, and a 6 hour time limit. My new refugee feigning friend wanted to stop for some coffee. He insisted I join him. In Ethiopia, cafés are a major part of the work routine. Ten cents gets you a cup of joe and unlimited table time. Sure, I'd join him.
Five minutes later, we arrived at an unmarked gate. A knocking sequence gained us entry. An almost barren concrete patio with a plastic outdoor table demarcated a small shack from a fairly modern house that exposed a large living room with spotless furnishings. The shack housed eight lasciviously dressed women in their late teens to early twenties who were sitting around idly playing on their cell phones. One by one, the aspiring Eritrean introduced me to his Angels. Out of the shack they marched, gleefully presenting me caked on cheeks in which to present my visa power wielding lips. Surely, some of these women were not in clitoral possession. This was no ordinary coffee shop. They all originally hailed from rural regions in the North. My practicing refugee promoted them as cultural attractions who were to show me traditional ceremonies. I would have been happy with a simple demonstration on non-clitoral masturbation. The airlift waiting host wanted his troupe to perform some ceremony while we enjoyed ourselves with their specially brewed coffee. The screen flashes momentarily. The player is given one chance to bail before the fleecing begins. If one should find himself in an unmarked establishment behind locked gates on a side road in Africa where eight women are to act as his personal waitstaff, suspicion levels should rise. As much as I wanted to experience a clitless orgy, nothing but a serious rip-off scam awaited me. Without offending the Angels' honor, I excused myself, only to be followed into the street by my erstwhile walking partner and current event coordinator.
"Why you not stay for coffee? You are promise you have the coffee."
"Look. That ain't a coffee joint. You brought me to some whorehouse, or some place where those women are going to attempt to take as much money as they can. I don't appreciate being lied to and I would like to continue by myself."
"Please. How are you saying such a thing. This is not America. There you are having lesbian and gay houses. We are not having. These are good women. They are students and today is no school. They only make traditional dance."
"Those girls are prostitutes. And you're a liar. If you keep following me, I'll tell the Swedes where you're really from and you’ll never see a ligonberry as long as you live."
"You are a stupid man. This is a famous place, and I am trying to show you culture things. Why does the white man think he is so smart. You are not smart. You only make problems and war. You not know my people. We are good people and do not do such things. This is good country. We are Christians. Christians do not lie."
"Yeah, it’s a fine place, except when you meet con artists like yourself. People like you give this country a bad name. But that's fine. I'm not interested. I'm leaving. Don't follow me. You may want to find a Canadian. They're quite gullible and would never offend you like an American."
"This is why the peoples hate America. You are motherfuck people, really motherfucks. You think you are the best. You think everybody must listen you. I am not to listen. I will not listen you. You not know my country. We not have prostitute. We are good religious people. You have make a mistake. So leave, Please leave you motherfuck and tell the people in America we hate them. They are all real motherfucks."
Can't somebody just come out and talk about gratifying a clit deficient woman? I continued searching for a resource that would enlighten. The following day I thought I found my source. Leaning over a glass showcase full of bootlegged CD's, his plumply coifed afro beckoned white nomads in pursuit of knowledge and ass. Why him? Because certain white men have held the furry hive of Negro curls in a state of jealous reverence since the days of Dr. J and Richard Supafly Shaft Roundtree. The tin paneled kiosk was floor to ceiling full of VHS videos with titles such as "Fighting Fury", available with sequels 2 through 7. Many movies were Americans films that most Americas never saw. They are part of the lucrative overseas market that demands high action, minimal plot, and Special Olympic caliber acting.
Testing the potential for a quick confiding friendship, I inquired as to his favorite actor?
"It must be Brad Pitt. He is my favorite. Yes, him."
"True Romance or Ocean's Eleven?"
"Please. It is True Romance. But I not find this HoneyBear bong in Ethiopia. Also, I must tell you that the First Rule of Fight Club is that there are no Rules."
"Nice. Anybody else."
"Laurence Fishburne. He is most excellent black actor. I see everything from Apocalypse Now to Matrix to most recent. I think in fight he can really beat the ass of Denzel Washington. I am right yes. Maybe you can ask when you go back America for this movie to be make. Many people here will watch."
"No argument. How about The Rock and Sinbad. Oh, And Vin Diesel. They belong to the Blacks also.You like those guys."
"You play me a fool. Shit, my brutha, I the movie man of the Addis Ababa. I am not like these movies of the shit that my countrymen are liking. I am Daniel, the movie man. If I not have it I get it."
Daniel, hopefully, would be just the person to provide candid insight into the world of circumcised coitus. He manned the 50 square foot Den of Pirated Cinema with his female cousin, who appeared to play straight 'man' to her kin's goofy behind-the-counter antics. Although it was hard to see her package concealed behind a stack of Steven Segal video tapes. Daniel was twenty-two years old and the sole proprietor of his movie shack. 2 birr got you two nights rental, but 5 birr (55 u.s cents) got your very own copy in the market. If taken on a one to one scale with the dollar, his ratio was quite similar to the current American rental market. I explained Blockbuster was being forced to convert to the flat fee unlimited monthly rental system. He responded that his market lived day to day and couldn't afford a larger lump sum payment despite its price per rental benefits, nor was he worried about competing mail delivery rental systems as the doorside Postman was an unknown entity in this society. He visited the central market weekly to acquire new titles, usually available days after appearing for the first time in America. Surprisingly, yet encouragingly, he regretted his continued reliance on second rate action films…”My peoples must to learn the quality of such movie heaven as the ‘Seven Years in Tibet’ or most scary of the scare, ‘Seven.’” But, he countered that most local people have minimal knowledge of English and these movies were the easiest for them to follow. He dreamed of going to America, not necessarily for the money, but to see all the places featured in his favorite movies. "I want to go fish in Montana like Brad Pitt from Legends of the Fall. I want to go the very big parking garage buildings like Brad Pitt in Fight Club. I want to go the motel where Brad Pitt is having sex with Thelma and Louise. I want to see the Twelve Monkeys sign in all the cities. One day, I am hoping, I go."
Daniel and his silent sidekick invited me behind the bootlegged CD countertop to partake in one of Ethiopia's great traditions, the Coffee Ceremony. Normally performed in the confines of one's home, they kept a special 'at-work' kit to occasionally wile away the languid afternoons. Instead of pressing a button for immediate access to the world's favorite stimulant, a small frying pan is filled with raw coffee beans and roasted over a charcoal fire. Once the beans are sufficiently cooked, they are placed in a mortar and pulverized until ready for placement in the heavy clay decanter where the grounds are heated along with the water. As the coffee is poured, a small plate of freshly cooked popcorn is passed around for snacking. This must be from the American Reverend Redenbacher’s missionary influence. Meanwhile, a tray of espresso size cups is lined up, layered with 2 heaping tablespoonfuls of sugar before receiving the bean’s bitter juice. The truly impressive part of the whole affair was the location: Three of us crouched in a dwarf's coffin sized space where the makeshift kitchen was created as customers occasionally approached in towering position from above the countertop.
The movie man was frustrated at the boredom he endured on a daily basis. Spending every day in a small shop watching movies, renting movies, talking movies. He wanted more. The caffeine must have loosened his parameters as he now confessed a desire to re-locate to America for more then a Hollywood sightseeing tour.
“I not like spend ten hours every day to rent the movie. This is not good. I need more. In America it will be better.”
“Actually, people that rent movies in America do the same thing as you. Änd, well, maybe they smoke a little pot. Only they can’t spend an hour brewing coffee and have to wear really ugly shirts. You don’t want to wear a really ugly shirt. If you think that job is boring, the other immigrants drive taxis. They sit behind a wheel and drive all day. Some people are lucky and work in an office. Here, they sit at a desk all day while looking at a computer. You will be bored. You will make more money but then you will spend more money for rent and food. Plus, you will never have the friendly community you deal with here. In America, you’ll be taught that time has value. So you’re casual talking with the street goers and excessive coffee breaks will not be tolerated. And you’ll never have time to visit the Brad Pitt movie locations cause you’ll be working all the time.”
Daniel’s dreams were smashed. He nodded to the ceremony leader for another cup. As we enjoyed the roasted beans, Daniel began showing his true worth.
"You like the women we are having here."
"Of course, They're beautiful. Even the ugly ones. How about you? Is it hard to have sex with the women here."
"Ha. You are interested in our ladies. This is good. It is not hard if you know how to work the womens. You must be like Daniel the movies man. I am only get the mobile number. I play cool like the Will Smith. Then I am make appointment to meet in dark place. Maybe outside, some place is private. We are talking, I am making to laugh. I tell her so many nice things about her. I pay no money. We make kiss. It is very good. Very good. By the way, we have the sex. Maybe two days or some more days, but for sure, we next have the sex. Now I am have one girl for six months. She is nice.”
“Did this girl have her sex thing cut? Wait. I’ll draw you a picture [I drew a photo of the missing link]. Does this look familiar?”
“Hey, my new brutha, I am not know what you talk. They are normal. No problems. We only make the sex.”
“But have you seen it. Have you seen the woman’s area? Have you got up close and felt it, maybe tasted it?”
“You are crazy, yes? Why I make taste the woman’s thing. The pussy, yes. You call the pussy. I am not do this. I not make touch. We have sex. This is it. This make me sick if I go to make taste the pussy. You are doing this?””
“Of course, it is the law in America. You are not permitted to have sex unless you make tasting of the pussy. Very serious offense. Punishable by stoning. But if you never touch or taste, then you don’t know if the women have been cut or not.”
“I not know. I am sorry if I upset you.”
“It’s alright. Look, do you do anything else to this girl or the other girls to pleasure them This means are you touching them in other places, or doing other things to their bodies to make them happy beside just making the sex.”
“I make some kiss. I take from her the trousers, and then I make the sex. She is liking. I know because she not telling me to stop. If she not like, she must say to the movie man, ‘Daniel, stop the sex.’ Then I stopping the sex. But she not say.”
“You really should take a better look at the woman’s pussy. I think you may find something you like down there.”
“Hey, look me. I am African man. You are knowing my American brutha, Samuel Jackson. I see him in movie. Pulp Fiction, I am think. He is saying the black man not eating the pussy. I am black man. Look me. You see me. I am a black man. Really I am black man maybe better the looking then Samuel Jackson. I am still young, you are seeing, and very handsome. Ok, by the way, Maybe in the pornos movies. They do. I not doing such thing. It may kill me. By the way, you like the coffee?”
How can so many people be ignorant of a woman’s most utilized area of intimacy? The more I failed to gather answers, the more convinced I was becoming that the cure to Africa’s perennial ailments lie in the ability to satisfy a clitless woman, or something related to it. Like the immortal words of the profiteering purveyor of the private school, “there are many other ways to pleasure a woman.” Perhaps, the Donators and Locals alike were tunnel visioning into the welfare crotch rather then the more discreet back of the knee bliss receptor.
In the following week, I secured a female friend, one of a younger age then my previous school principal. Semaya epitomized the global urban female. Conscious of the environment, equality, and career, her views were not much different then young women in the West. Plus, she held one key attribute that many of her fellow patriots lacked: no desire to move to America. All of her siblings worked stateside, and she was constantly bombarded with stories of their mounting stress and failure to fit in. She felt more free in her native country and claimed she would be of more value by stemming the Brain Drain that is stripping Africa of a legitimate chance to succeed in the modern world. And what do educated globalized conscious women want to do? Work for a non-profit. She was the face of a new Ethiopia. Borrowed from the West, but homegrown. Stylish and sensible, she hoped to increase the education opportunities for her country’s youth. At twenty six years old, she must have some experience with the clitoris.
“Of course, we are famous here, and in the neighboring countries for this problem. It still affects many girls in the country, but it is not common in the more populated areas.”
“Why you ask me this? Of course, my parents never make this surgery on me.”
“I don’t think I can talk about this things with you. It is private.”
“Ok. I understand it is for research and you are concerned about disease. But I do not have these experiences with men.”
“I don’t think the man is going to touch me there. They want to make sex, not have a look around. I can’t tell you that I agree because I have little experience. I promise you that I have not had this surgery. But I know many men and I do not really think they are so interested in making the woman feel good, only that they can make sex for them and leave. But really, this is not something I know so much about it. Is that not good? ”
No more cities. The secret to clitless gratification would only manifest its altered pink head from the rural communities. Somebody out there had answers. And if the white man had to start burning villages and taking women for himself, then anthropology would succeed. A science began by whitey for whitey knew no boundaries. If painted tribal women had to be subjected to intense questioning and embarrassing situations for the restless curiosity of a foreigner, then the colonial hand of force would be raised. Lock up your wives and hide the children, the Gringo is coming and he’s got a backpack full of notebooks waiting to assault your dignity.
The appointed liaison for Rural Clit Affairs was a man named Tom. Like many countries whose names confuse the limited hearing of the West, Tom adapted a suitable moniker for his dealings with idiots like myself. And Tom was no ordinary dung burner. Armed with a graduate degree in education, he traveled the countryside educating teachers on the more modern methods of teaching. We met by eavesdropping. In African dialected English, he and his traveling minion of educators were debating the current state of Northern Ireland, and whether its peace would be lasting. How can a foreigner hearing such a conversation on an Ethiopian bus not interrupt?
“Northern Ireland is part of the United Kingdom.”
“Are you so sure they are not having separate country?”
“Yes, they are the illegitimate brothers of Scotland and Wales, who have been sent by God to assure that Western Europe is never to be completely free of home grown terror activities.”
“Is not Spain also have some problem with terror from northern part?”
“Yes, you are very knowledgeable of world affairs. But Spain is not really white. The European Union only accepted them to meet racial quotas and have cheaper access to pork products unavailable in the northern countries.”
“We think Northern Ireland need have a country for the catholic peoples and a country for the protestant peoples. This is our position.”
“Don’t you guys have enough problems at home rather then discussing a relatively minor detail on the world political map?”
“What. You are thinking that only white people can talk about such problems. We are interested in the world affairs. And as such, we are watching the BBC almost every night. It is the duty of the educated man to know these things.”
“You’re right. But sometimes I just get frustrated with religion and how its divided people into rival gangs when the teachings are really the same.”
“So you are believing in God, or are you one of these Western peoples who thinks we are living in the world without a God?”
“I’ve got an issue with Heaven. I think God needs to limit the occupancy. Think about it. Heaven has been open for a long time, more then two thousand years for some groups. And everybody thinks they got a shot at heaven. God needs to speak out, and announce that Heaven’s currently full. Hotels do it. Nightclubs do it. Make ‘em wait on the velvet rope like everybody else. My issue is population control. It’s destroying Africa. Family planning as dictated by Western teaching is not working. This is a land of deep religious conviction. The Priests need to get together and inform the people that God has spoken. Heaven is booked solid. There is no more room, and God has instilled a cap. You get 100 years. That’s right, 100 years of blissful afterlife and then you are deposited into the sea. However, Hell is as cheap as ever, and waiting for all those interested. It’s very important to not close Hell. This is the genius behind an obedient society. The people must remain in fear of the burning depths, but not have the luxury to believe that just because they don’t kill or steal, they’ll be given an endless afterlife of lazy luxury. I think this is the key to Africa controlling its population as people will be less prone to have children if they think their own kids will be competing for limited space with themselves. Man is a selfish creature. So, when God announces his new plan, then maybe I’ll come back to the Faith.”
“Ok. We accept your idea. I will speak to our priest when we return to our home. If I can make it work, I send you email. Maybe you help to save our country. Thank you.”
I knew I found my guys. And Tom was their nominated leader. Younger then the rest, coming in a tad under thirty years, but he spoke with the passion and articulation of a seasoned leader. Once again, the local bus served as a matchmaker. Tom accompanied me for a vegetarian dinner of glop and plop the next evening.
“I think it’s commendable that you educate other teachers on ways to improve their teaching technique. Its one of the best ways to assure the youth population has a chance to compete in this new global society. But regarding health education, which I know isn’t exactly your field, why has nothing happened to the AIDS rate of infection?”
“I can tell you this. We Africans like to make sex. And because we do three things, it is causing a problem. First, we make sure the door is close and lock behind. Then we must turn out all lights. The room must be very dark or we can not make sex. Then, we only have the sex in one position. We are face to face and laying on our sidebodies. Only like this can we make sex.”
“Ok. Closing the door seems reasonable unless you know your mother likes watching, then this isn’t really fair. Many women don’t like the lights on, although you may want to invest in candles. And you aren’t so creative in your lovemaking, but what the hell does that have to do with AIDS?”
“Can you not realize what I am saying? The man can not see to place the condom on properly and so he is not wearing it correctly and then he has problem with getting disease.”
“Tom, c’mon, you’re a smart guy. You don’t believe that do you? Anybody can feel a condom onto their penis. It’s probably one of the few things a man can do efficiently in the dark. You’re not telling me something…”
“Yes, you are right. We do not like the condom. No man I am knowing will wear the condom. Nobody like it. Sometime the prostitute make the man wear but when you have the free sex, nobody is wearing. And many people are making free sex. It is very easy. We have no recreation opportunity hear. Everything is expensive or you need car or money to do things. But to make sex is free and even the women are willing if you make something for them.”
“Yeah, like getting their phone number and taking them for a walk in the dark and seeing them at night in secret and maybe having dinners with them before getting to have sex, right?”
“Yes, you know of this. I was thinking it was a secret.”
“Many people have told me of this special technique. I will try to introduce it in America.”
“Tom, help me out. You are an educated man who likes to have sex. You live in the country. What is like to make sex to these women with no clitoris, the small sex organ that many families cut off. How do you go about pleasuring them, bringing them orgasm, making foreplay, and so forth?”
“It is sex. I don’t know how it is different. I’m not sure if these women have had the surgery or not.”
“You must have felt it before, right, the little piece of skin that hangs by the vagina?”
“What are you saying? I have never touch this area. It is for sex. I put my penis there. I don’t touch.”
“Eating, licking, sometimes maybe put your mouth there.”
“You are sick man. This is sick. Only in the movies they make this. I have never done this. I have sex many years. I meet my first girl when I am fourteen. We are in church. Later we have sex in trees. Now it is many years and I never can put my mouth there. I do not know of any man here that does that. Sometimes I think the white man has ideas that are very bad for Africa. He is always saying his idea is right for the African people, but we are not white people. Look how we are dancing. You can not do this. And for you, now that Heaven is having limited space, you must stop eating the woman, or God will not let you to enter.”
“Tom, help me, please. There are women here, women without a certain sexual organ. I need to know if they are able to have orgasm. Or if the men are finding other ways they can give pleasure to the women? Are the women making loud noises during sex and having a shaking body. Shit, but you don’t know if they have clits, which changes everything for me…”
“Yes, the girl is making some small noise. And she is wet. Sometimes, she is too wet like she go to the bathroom. She make river. I can not make sex to a woman like this condition. She is not loud like these pornography movies. Where do these women come from? Now some of our young people they want to copy these movies and I think it is very bad for our country. This is not the good way to have sex. They must be natural and not copy from the white man. But the white man is very smart, you see, and he makes these movies with black people now. I know they are black people coming from America who listen to white man and take his money but the young Ethiopian thinks they are like them so they copy. They are not using our standard position any more and they ask the girl for sucking and maybe they are asking her to make yelling noises too. This is a problem in our young generations.”
Fed up in my quest for the lost little pink riding hood, I vacated Ethiopian society for the silent oasis of the Northern Highlands. Starting at an altitude of 10,000 feet, the mountains harbor gangs of wild vegetarian baboons and large birds of prey. The daily megaphonic grind of competing mosque prayers and repetitive church songs would be forgotten, as would electricity and the automobile. The remote hillsides would bring harmony to a spirit defeated by its insatiable quest for clitless comprehension.
Fearing for the safety of those who navigate the park, and perhaps sensing an opportunity for some extra cash, the local authorities require that you bring an armed bodyguard to accompany your trek. And for a few dollars more, they can provide you with an English attempting guide to inform you of the poisonous berries you’re bout to eat. Alex became my new commanding officer, and Jamal would be providing Secret Service functions.
Alex was one of these people that possessed a good command of the English language but acquired no listening skills which nullified his advanced vocabulary. Further, he was trying to enhance his marketability as a guide, so he had been studying to take a state geology exam. Between long walks of wilderness silence, I would get the occasional,
“How is the alluvial fan differing from the detrital sediment?”, or he would ask “if you know the current radiative transfer that is taking place in our highland tropical equatorial climate then I would be most interested to know.”
“Alex, if it’s not going to rain, I don’t give a shit. You have any idea of the per capita population of clitless women in the park.”
“Per capita, we have quite a small population density. Have you such cumulus cloud formations where you come from?”
“Can you find hamburgers in the villages if you pay enough money?”
‘There are only few villages that we will see. Are you aware that there is a seismic discontinuity here that is to threaten some of our habitats?”
“I bet some of these villages try to kidnap tourists and ransom them for food and stuff, which is why I’m being followed by the Rifleman.”
“Tourism is a growing trend in the Simien Mountain Park which may to threaten the natural landscapes. I have interest in using the Moh’s Scale to measure density of our sedimentary rock formations. Are you able to offer some assistance in this?”
“Alex, I don’t know or really care about geology. I appreciate your passion for it, but can you please limit your comments to wildlife I may have missed or topics pertaining to the sexual habits of local village women. Thank you.”
“I am understanding you have come from a country with many interesting things that are relating to Geology. There are many places I most wish to see. The Yellowstone Park and The Grandest Canyon. Also, it is of importance to spend much time at the Continental Divide so that I may have observation of plate tectonic shifting, and perhaps, I can also find small evidence of orogaphic lifting, which I can apply to the chapter which I now study.”
In a slow, clear, and loud voice, “Alex, …TELL…ME…ABOUT…YOUR…WIFE.”
“I am meet her six years before. She is from here, in the mountains. She is a much younger woman than I but we are having to like each other. I am know that I shall marry to this woman, and I am having a good job which is making the marry much easier. Also, she is coming from prostitute family so I am very easy able to support such a woman who is prostitute…”
“DOES…PROSTITUTE…WIFE…MAKE…SEX…FUN?”
“Why are you saying my wife is prostitute. She is not such thing. You have seen her before we are leaving for trek. She is good woman. Please not say this about my wife.”
“YOU…SAY…WIFE…IS…FROM…PROSTITUTE…FAMILY”
“I say this? Oh, please, you must forgive me. Please. I ask you that English is not of my first language, and I can make the mistake. Please you are not telling my wife.”
“I think its kinda weird to say your wife was a prostitute and not mean it. It’s cool, man. I like that you rescued a hooker from the village. It makes a great story, and probably enhances your bedroom life and, of course, saves you a lot of money.”
“I am telling you that I not call her prostitute. I…I am not know why I say this. She is destitute before I meet her. Yes, this is my mistake. YesYes. I am saying prostitute for the destitute. Ok. Ok. She is from the destitute family. This is not good mistake. I must to remember that a prostitute is not destitute and the destitute is not the prostitute. [he continues to mumble to himself, ‘destitute not prostitute destitute not prostitute]…Are you noticing the differential rise in the barometric pressure? Do you think we are experiencing an occluded front?”
“Wait a sec. You say your wife is from a poor family, from a village, here in rural Ethiopia. Alex. Holy Shit. This is perfect! You have a clitless wife. You must have had sex with her because you told me she takes birth control…and you have a baby, so you’ve had sex at least once, if you weren’t cuckolded. Please, tell me what it’s like to make your wife happy during sex. What do you do to her to make her show pleasure.”
“Yes. She is good wife. Look. There. I think I see the lammergeyer. This is a native bird of prey that eats the bones of the dead animal. You can take the photo now. It is good opportunity for seeing this large bird.”
“Fuck the bird Alex. I am camping with a man who has sex with a clitoris deficient wife. That’s exotic. I know your wife is quite far at this point for us to go and examine her, but I really want to know about her circumcision and how it affects your sexual life.”
Whispering, “Please. Do not make move. Stay quiet and the bird is coming close to us. Put camera away. Lammergeyer is very special here in Park. You must watch to the bird.”
“Great. Looks like a vulture. You can find these birds everywhere. But few people have spent time with a man that pleasures a clitless woman. Alex. You must share your story.”
“We should be moving to make our camp. We will go along the escarpment watching for the signs of the glacial erosion from the Paleozoic period. Here you can find the making of the park.”
“Alex. Stop. Just listen to me. Ok. LISTEN. Don’t move. Don’t think about the weather, animals, or arctic cold fronts. I want to talk to you about the clitoris. CLITORIS. It is a very small part of the female body located near the vagina that allows a woman to feel sexual pleasure and eventually orgasm. I will draw you a photo. Ok. You see that. In many areas of this country, especially in rural areas, young girls go through a ritual where this is removed. Your wife, being from a destitute rural family, probably had hers removed. I WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT IT…FROM…YOUR…EXPERIENCE.”
“I am doing guide business many years with people and I am not hearing this thing before. I see your photo but my wife is not like this people. She is normal wife. We have the normal sex.”
“How do you know? Have you seen it? Have you felt it? I don’t believe this. She must not have what I make in the drawing.”
“I am confident that I have most normal wife. We have a healthy child. My wife has no problems with the sex. Everything is fine. We can move to the camp now?”
“Answer these easy questions. Have you seen your wife naked in the light?”
“We only are doing this in the night. There is no light.”
“Have you ever put your mouth or your hand on your wife’s sex area. The vagina, as we say.”
“Why you keep to ask such question. I am not placing anything in this place. This is place for sex. This is where I put my penis. Then we are making sex. You make sex different where you are from?”
“Sorta. Are you making sex from the side only or do you ever make different position?”
“Yes, we make sex facing each other. we are on side. This is way to have sex.”
“Does your wife make loud noises during sex, or maybe some kind of muscle contraction? Do you notice any high level of excitement that we call ‘orgasm?’ Are you touching her in other areas of the body to give her excitement.”
“Only she is lying there with me. There are some noises. I am not sure what. She does not complain. I am sure she likes it.”
“Let’s go see some wild meat hating baboons.”
Finished. The Almighty intended some things to remain a mystery. Countless seekers of the truth have sought to untangle the Bermuda Triangle, or compiled intricate explanations for the real assassin of John F. Kennedy. Others have spent years trying to determine the validity of Ted Koppel’s hair. And now, another riddle can be slipped into Wikipedia’s unsolved mystery database, the first since the alleged appearance of the Virgin Mary on a dirty Datsun in Twin Oaks, Arkansas, back in Autumn of 2007. Perhaps future pseudo-anthro Apologists will unearth better techniques for unraveling the gratification of the clitless woman.
Alex continued his incomprehensible geological scatter talk as our time in the highlands persisted. Whenever possible, I would disappear down another path, as a millennia of shepherds had left an infinite number of trails following their disobedient flocks. Discovering a guide-less solitude, in viewing distance of some small mountain village, I would long to discover the secrets of those clitless women sewing blankets in the shadows of their mud huts. But I felt like a small penniless boy, the child of organic vegan parents, catatonically fixated in an ice cream store window. And then, just as I began to overcome my stigma and successfully visualize the seamstresses hidden pleasure receptors, a rifle would appear abruptly in my developing fantasy. A goddamn rifle. Jesus, Jamal. He wouldn’t say anything. He appeared neither mad nor content. His routine repeated for the next three days. I wanted to ditch my rambling weatherman. I’d fall out from the trail, and find myself peacefully lost through the dense underbrush. Within minutes, the pleasures of my escape still tickling nicely, the silent bodyguard would emerge from behind a tree, or under the grass. He wouldn’t prod me to return to the other path. Maybe he was also fed up with the shifting weather pattern eulogies. He became like an imaginary friend. One that I could see, and that could shoot my head off, but nonetheless, an imaginary friend. I’d go on a rant about Africa, and he would obligingly listen, unable to communicate a reply. Then, I would make up a reply for him, which he would also listen to. If I walked, he followed, and when I sat, he sat. And like a dog, if I ate, he got fed. Everyone should have the experience of having your very own human pet. Well, I guess some would call that slavery. Problem. But…if you decide to call it capitalism, you’ll be well accepted. Unlike the clitless conundrum, this experiment makes for easy participation. Show up at the conference introducing your slave Jamal and you’ll be properly ostracized and eventually arrested. But if you introduce your black human pet as your very own hired bodyguard who is sworn to allegiance and personal assistance all for the bargain price of 3 dollars a day, then you’ll be the life of the party, helping others capture their very own Jamal.
By the final day’s trek, Alex decided to keep his studies, and his thoughts internal. Occasionally, he would yell out, “In this time of year the aridity coefficient is quite high. But the acid decomposition is rather low. Are you having similar where you come from?”
But otherwise, he paced in silence. Jamal would follow from such a distance that I thought myself a lone explorer, only to snare a glimpse of his rifle butt feigning branch from behind one of the many windswept trees hugging the rugged cliff strewn paths. It was there, on the final day, between my dutiful escorts, that the quest for clitless pleasure finally appeared as a quest for African pleasure. Or, even survival.
The clitless women mystery cloaked my real frustration: What the Fuck is up with Africa?
Two previous trips to the continent were focused on the people, spending time in both rural and urban locations, in a sincere attempt to understand the dynamics of a misunderstood population. After a certain amount of days sharing bowls of muck with strange families, a foreigner is bound to leave Africa wowed by their spirit and the lasting strength of their smile. How can people so poor seem so happy? Then you start to blame colonialism for introducing the state of decay in which Africa has yet to recover. Divide and Rule attitudes, failure to respect traditional tribal boundaries, the creation of the nation-state, inferiority complexes, pillaging of valuable natural resources in return for even higher prices to be paid for imported goods, and of course the legacy of soccer, which has only further alienated the Africans from their capitalist American heroes. Europe screwed this place. So while young Europeans are deciding which shade of orange vinyl trousers to buy, young Africans are trying to understand the value of a university degree in a job deficient nation.
However, and it’s a fairly important ‘however,’ one nation managed to completely eschew foreign control (with the exception of a few trying years): Ethiopia. Here lie the sample to prove/disprove the colonial destruction theories. And what do the friendly and humble confines of Ethiopia have to show for escaping their pasty frown faced menaces? An out of control birthrate. Entire regions of erosion destroyed croplands. High rates of all the goodies like Malaria, Cholera, and H.I.V. Lack of adequate and accessible health care facilities. The same for schools. And clean water. An esteemed top 10 placing in the continent’s poverty index. A government so corrupt that it banned text messaging for three years so people couldn’t have spontaneous protests. The same ruling party rigged their previous election, and killed those who protested malfeasance. To further substantiate their prowess, the King of Democracies, a place where the leader of said nation assumes power based on the electoral elucidations of unaccountable delegate societies, supports such a government as long as it interferes in the affairs of its Somali neighbor. In return, the Yankee King provides a province worth of American grown starchy product to further increase dependency, and undermine the local markets. All of this horror persists despite decades of commitment by non-profit agencies to eliminate the aforementioned. In Ethiopia, it seems that every private vehicle you see is emblazoned with some sort of United Nation decal. Even in areas labeled, ‘back of beyond,’ one comes across some office funded by a wealthy foreign government. The people working for these organizations are usually genuine in their desire to cure. They have left their relatively comfortable homelands to enter a world of opposites where only their good intentions and a decent wage keep them from abandoning the nightmare that won’t awaken.
Education. It’s cited as the primary element for a society’s failings. Go to Ethiopia, and you’ll find a nation of respectful people. A place where crime is low and families are still strong. It’s impossible to take a bus ride without meeting one student currently studying at the post secondary level. The Non-Governmental Organizations (NGHOS) have been pulverizing the populace with education relating to health for many years. So What’s wrong?
Africans want stuff. They want their stuff like the rest of humanity. But they can’t manage an economy to deliver it. They’ve developed burgeoning money making enterprises in Asia and South America, two places that also suffered through colonialism and high poverty rates. Why not in Africa? Uncomfortable questions, ones that a western population currently trained in cultural sensitivity, start surfacing as spores before enveloping the questioner in a full blown mold outbreak. Why was South Africa always the continents leading economy, especially when the majority of its citizens were denied basic human rights? And why was the nation of Zimbabwe, another leader in African economic indexes, suddenly the bearer of the world’s highest inflation rates when its small white population had their farms hijacked by militant reparation thugs. Maybe the macro level is just too damn big to comprehend. So why did it take two hours, for a full bus, with no apparent mechanical problems, to leave this morning from the local bus station? Why does one order food in an African restaurant, completely empty, and wait an hour for food that needs no murdering? Why do mid range African hotels have broken toilets, non-functioning hot water tanks, and really bad tile grout jobs? Why do highly educated locals think that having sex in the dark is keeping HIV rates high? Why are people going hungry when local markets are overflowing with produce that eventually rots into the mouths of stray goats? Why are hundreds of millions spent on asphalt paving projects when no one has a car? And why isn’t that same money spent on irrigation projects that could give people food, income, and health?
Has a cycle of dependency been born? Is their a genetic issue which predisposes one race of people to a particular style of living, perhaps one of non-europeo origin? Education? Corruption? Weather patterns? Brain draining? Soil content? Every possible theory has been studied. Many have grown into full blown organizations that are currently in Africa testing their hypotheses on the seemingly desperate populations. But every step forward keeps bringing two the other way.
There is only one possible untested theory remaining. The only potential treatment for mother earth’s most beleaguered piece of property. The Connie Lingual Foundation, a non-profit gratification organization based in Helsinki, Finland, has finally decided to endow a qualifying team of dedicated researchers with a ten year grant to determine the underlying reasons African men refuse to eat vagina. The Foundation has requested that the prospective research team ascertain both the cultural and biological underpinnings that have prevented the African male from munching on the mons. Dr. Lingual, the greatgrandson of the infamous crotch chewin’ Connie, a former colleague of Freud who exiled himself in the Finnish birchwoods after a heated dispute with Sigmund the Shlongmonger. Connie spent the remainder of his life probing ways in which muff mastication could benefit whole sections of society politically, socially, and economically. By the turn of the 20th century, Connie had turned the nation’s conservative rustic saunas into drive by windows of raw vaginal delight. His painstaking research and education sparked a small personal growth revolution in the forgotten Scandinavian sibling. Doctor Lingual was soon able to provide mathematical data showing that the meteoric increase in worker productivity was due to the rampant rise of snatch suckin’ Finns. In addition, the good doctor was posthumously credited with bringing about a decline in Finland’s notoriously high suicide rate. Today, Finns from all segments of society celebrate Connie Lingual Day with large pussy puckering parades, Baltic Muff Diving Competitions, and copious amounts of specially fermented vaginal vodka.
The bus had been roadborne for at least an hour, leaving the tranquil Abyssinian peaks to fade into to Alex’s geological wondermusings. And Enough time for the trapped air to slowly suffocate its hostages. Ethiopians believe firmly in Moving Vehicle Open Window Syndrome. In this clearly logical illness, the slightly cooler outside air will cause respiratory problems and lead to a variety of health ailments. So, instead of allowing non-polluted air to cool the bus, locals choose to fester in a contented sweat. Meanwhile, the mountain curves propel the more sensitive patrons to expel digested breakfast chunks in a collaborative effort to help aromatize the stagnant air with the lovely essence of Barf, a locally produced crop harvested daily on the nation’s stellar fleet of window locked rolling sarcophagus’. As the locals handed out plastic bags to better store the valuable harvest, my thoughts were re-focused onto the ills of Africa.
Perhaps, an American upbringing convinces you that all people deserve to be equal. America may contradict a number of its own doctrines, but her ideals still survive within the majority of citizens. A Ugandan would spend time in Ethiopia and simply think that is how life is, so what’s for dinner. But an American wants the people to have opportunity, equality and a fair chance at a comfortable life. It’s what keeps the Great Satan in Iraq. And it’s what puts the food on Sally Struthers plate. I thought I was a proud non-American American, the kind who arrogantly professed his cynicism for all thoughts and things America. Anti-GlobalizationAnti-BushAnti-ForeignPolicyAnti-ConsumeristAnti-GasguzzlingAnti-ReligionAnti-MilitaryAnti-SuburbAnti-DunkinDonutsAnti-BikeHelmetAnti-EverybodyLovesRaymondAnti-ShoppingMallAnti-the whole mainstream culture. But I was wrong. It was those exact thoughts that made me American. The fact that I knew there could be better, that there should be better was an American ideal. Speaking out against those flaws was merely an effort to improve them. Those detestable things were byproducts of America but they didn’t define the American soul; a core often times buried beneath an avalanche of materialism that only seems to surface when an injustice occurs. No matter how anti-war you may be, a talk with an American military guy will leave you confounded as they’ll always talk about bringing freedom to people they’ve never met. They don’t want to rule or kill or pillage or demean. Sure, they may listen to the rancid rhythms of Christian Rock and profess religious loyalty to their favorite professional wrestler. They may keep a wallet size photo of Dubya and a Pro-Life card inside their jacket. But all that armor and headphone pounding Jesus Jams mask the common mission of the U.S. military: to protect people they’ve never met in their own country and to improve the lives of those they’ve never met in other countries.
Was that it? Was the frustration a side-effect of my American born principles submerged beneath a fortification of misdirected American self-hate? My new conundrum seemed to mitigate the growing stench of death that was enveloping the sealed bus. As much as I wanted to write off the whole continent as a colossal failure draining resources that others could use more wisely, the inner drive wanted it to work. Just a few more years. Soon. Soon, all this intervention would help the forgotten continent to prosper. These were good people who deserved a life of health and comfort. I shouldn’t be entitled to such things by an accident of birthplace. But I should be entitled to a table at Imbroglio, as I supported that place when no one else ate there. Don’t tell me I need to make a reservation a month in advance.
A little kid distracted me further from the reek and my frustrated thoughts. He would yank on the shirt of a breastfeeding baby across the aisle before running back to his mother on the other side. He brought my attention to the young mother feeding her kid. The infant clearly looked milked-out, but the eager mamma would keep thrusting his feasting head onto her exposed bosom. An hour went by, and I became mesmerized by the continual feeding as the older child, about 3 years in age would disappear in front of his mom, who occupied the seat directly in front of me. Where did he go before he launched back on the attack of his nipple fixated neighbor? I decided to peer over the seat to get a better idea of this little warrior’s pre-attack ritual. Some ritual. The talkingwalking child opened the nipple fridge. And he sucked right up to the moment of his cross aisle attack. Upon his triumphant return, he’d hover nearby his mother until she gently grabbed his head and brought it to her chest. What was going on? The young mother didn’t stop breastfeeding and this mother was milkin’ a child old enough to buy his own milk. Apparently, I had landed in the Breastuda Triangle as the women sharing the seat with me appeared to be sheltering a baby. It was hard to know since she sat with her back to me, and her head was covered in a traditional manner. But a baby seemed to be tucked in there, somewhere. My eyes began to dance between the three moms when I noticed the wrinkles on my seatmates hands. What kind of mom has severe wrinkles in a culture without dry skin? She never faced me, so I had no choice but to bump her so she’d turn around. Wrong move. The Bates Hotel had a grand re-opening. That was no young mother in the seat. A women well into her sixties had her withered cantaloupe stuffed into this baby’s mouth. And she kept feeding. The melon munching melee continued for the next two hours. Practically non-stop. These kids didn’t need that much milk. And pacifier type products exist there fairly cheap. These women were getting aroused. There was no other explanation. I recalled a classic anthropological study where an island of South Pacific women admitted to the interrogator that they excessively breast fed because it was the only way they could get aroused, since their husbands weren’t really inclined toward gratifying their needs. Maybe that was what I was witnessing.
I found my clitless ladies. These were all women from the local village, prime candidates for missing clits. I couldn’t believe it. I searched the whole country trying to get answers about satisfying the surgery impaired women, and nobody knew. And here, just as my time in the country was finishing, this trio of tit pushers unleashed a new wave of hope. Africa may not have the traditional components to help it succeed in the modern world, but it shouldn’t fret. There will be another way, perhaps unimagined by Westerners, that will give Africa more opportunity.
The bus finally arrived. Cramped knees and a sore back finally got their chance at movement. The lungs devoured the fresh air. The triumvirate of titty teaters exited the five hour journey of potholed jarring and fetid breathing with an air of content, smiling to each other as they casually made their way from the parked bus. You could almost make out what they were saying: “They may have taken our clits, but they’ll never steal our feminity.” Everything was gonna be alright. Ethiopia, and Africa, would persevere. And if I had to suck on the tits of every Ethiopian woman to bring prosperity then so be it.
