Gotcha Day - Part III

Did I mention the number of people that we met with stories to tell?  The Riviera International Hotel lives up to its name, with a mishmash of guests from all corners of the globe.  Some, like us, have planned to stay awhile.  Others are just passing through unexpectedly, often waiting for connecting flights that they missed.  A third group are there for the long haul, a consequence of choice coupled with circumstance. 

The American gal headed home to ***, a small country in Africa where she has lived for over fourteen years.  We ask what brought her to ***; she responds, vaguely, that she went for school and ended up staying.  Perhaps a Christian missionary, living under cover because the country is 90% Muslim?  We pray for her safety.

The older, married couple from Minnesota, on their way to the Congo with a missions building team. They previously lived there for a number of years as missionaries.  We pray that their message is heard. 

The 55 year old pilot from Bellingham, Washington, in town for a multi-day interview with Ethiopian Airlines.  Laid off from TWA a number of years ago, he has bounced around to various flying gigs, and is currently employed training Ethiopian Airline pilots in Britain.  Recently divorced, with his children all in college, he finds himself looking for one last adventure.

The boisterously rough expat (Brit? Australian?) who says that he is a well driller who has lived in various countries in Africa for 8 years with his wife and now 6- and 8-year old sons.  He describes his heavy equipment, currently in Ethiopia but perhaps soon to be moved into Sudan. 

He is a questionable character, tragic whatever truth lies in the wings, with a persona that brings Hemingway to mind.  With his laptop and motorcycle helmet resting on the bar counter, he prods Isabella with a visibly dirty finger; when he offers to hold her, I pull her closer and say, truthfully, that she is bonding with us and does not like to be held by strangers.   We pretend not to notice when he returns to flirting and bargaining with the girls who sit in the bar. 

The girls' stories are both wholly obvious and yet wholly untold.  We identify four, in various rotations of two.  They arrive in the afternoon and sit alone at separate tables, facing the entryway.  They could easily pass as regular gals on break in almost any city in the U.S.  They are modestly primped and polished, from their hair and makeup to their nails and jewelry.

After greeting each other, they each sit their cell phone on their own table, and order a single drink that they nurse for hours.  I recall reading, in one guidebook or another, that the oldest profession in the world, while technically illegal, still carries some minimal amount of respect in Ethiopia; it is hard to know what one would do to survive, or help one's family survive, in the most desperate of circumstances.  Strangely, a couple of these girls are among the only overweight local young women that we have seen: confirmation, perhaps, of the money to be made in that line of work.

They admire Isabella, who is fascinated by them. They, too, offer to hold her, and again I smile but decline.  We nod goodbye as we leave after dinner.  On our last night, I wonder if there is something more that we should say or do, but nothing comes to mind, and the moment passes quickly. 

Each of these people's lives taunt me with promises of complex, interesting stories that I will never hear, like the bulk of the iceberg forever unseen under the water.  I am left with a heavy heart and a sorrowful prayer: for all of you who are lost, may He lovingly lead you home.