Chapter 21 – Entering into Anarchy

As Narasiṅgha Mahārāja and his group crossed the border into Ethiopia, they were unaware that they were stepping into the midst of a revolution. Under Emperor Haile Selassie, Ethiopia still followed an archaic feudal system which created deep-seated discontent among the populace. Additionally, there was widespread poverty, political repression and ethnic strife. In June 1975, a number of officers in the imperial army mutinied and created a Marxist faction known as the Derg. Backed by the Soviet Union, the Derg were intent on removing Haile Selassie from power and establishing a socialist utopia, and in September 1974, Haile Selassie was eventually deposed and imprisoned.

(Haile Sallasie)

(Ethiopian Villagers)

On August 27, 1975, the very day that the devotees arrived in Ethiopia, news broke of Haile Selassie’s death. The official story from the new regime was that the ex-monarch had undergone surgery and died of ‘natural causes’ while in prison – it later came to light however that these ‘natural causes’ were the result of him being strangled in his sleep. Suffice to say that the overall mood in Ethiopia was very tense when the devotees arrived.

Narasiṅgha Mahārāja: I look back at our time in Ethiopia now and think that we must have been crazy. We went for preaching and walked right into a war zone! Of course, it shows you how in-tune with the world the devotees were! It took us a month or more to organise our program and meanwhile, as we were figuring it all out, there was a coup d’état in Ethiopia – Haile Selassie was thrown into prison, and the day we arrive there, he dies. We had no clue who the hell Haile Selassie was!!

Mahārāja and the other devotees waited until eight o’clock in the morning, when a dilapidated old bus finally arrived to take them to the capital city, Addis Ababa – a gruelling journey that would last three days. As the bus jolted along the dusty, uneven roads, it paused at numerous points throughout the day, picking up villagers until the entire carriage was filled. The devotees had eaten nothing since they were in Kenya and were naturally feeling hungry. Just as the sun was going down, the vehicle finally came to a halt in a small town named Yabelo.

(Ethiopian Public Transport in 1975)

(The bus route from the Kenyan border to Addis Ababa)

Narasiṅgha Mahārāja: The bus stopped and everybody piled off. As the driver was leaving, he looked at me, “Sir, we stay here tonight. You stay on bus – very danger for you.” We hadn’t eaten the whole day, so I get off anyway and went outside. There were no buildings, no electricity, no asphalt – just sand and tents. There was a small market there, but the only thing I could find that was edible was bananas and sugar. So, I bought a leaf bag of sugar, a bunch of bananas, and got back on the bus. That’s all we had to eat – bananas and raw sugar.

However, eating was the least of their problems. Mahārāja, Ajāmila, and Nirāghadeva were the only passengers left on the bus. Now that the vehicle was stationary and they were no longer being jostled around, they decided to try to get some sleep.

Narasiṅgha Mahārāja: It was about eleven at night and I was stretched out across the back row, Ajāmila was crashed out in his seat, and Nirāghadeva was curled up in two seats. Most of the windows were shut, but the one next to Nirāghadeva’s head was open. All of the sudden he woke up and started to scream – there was a hand coming through the window, grabbing his neck. He smacked the guy’s hand away, the guy let out a yelp, and Nirāghadeva jammed the window shut. I jumped up, ran to the front of the bus, and there was this pole for passengers to hang on to – I grabbed it with one hand, swung around it, and, ‘Wham!!” I slammed my feet against the doors just as it was opening and held them shut. The doors were not hydraulic – this was a funky old bus from the 70s, so the guys on the other side were pushing the doors and it was bending in the middle towards me and starting to fold. I pushed both my feet against them and managed to knock them back. I could see figures through the glass and they all had machetes and beer bottles in their hands. They were all around the bus. Ajāmila and Nirāghadeva had shut all the other windows that were open. For about forty minutes, these guys outside were rattling the windows, trying to find some way in. For some reason, they never bothered breaking the windows – probably because the driver and the passengers might have heard it and come back. I spent the rest of the night with my feet against the doors, lying on my back in the stairwell of the bus. I didn’t sleep the whole night. Then when morning came, I finally dozed off for ten minutes when suddenly, the driver knocked on the window of the door. He was standing outside with all the passengers and their bags. I opened the doors, everybody piled on again and we just drove away. No explanation from the driver…

Their second day on the bus was uneventful until they reached the town of Ziway that evening. Once again, the bus wouldn’t continue to Addis Ababa until the next morning, but Mahārāja had no intention of staying on board again to fend off another horde of drunken thugs armed with machetes.

Narasiṅgha Mahārāja: We were dirty, smelly, sweaty, and dusty and just wanted to take a bath and sleep. Suddenly, I saw a hotel and told Nirāghadeva, “Book us a room or two there.” While he was doing that, Ajāmila and I went to check out a big lake that we saw on the way in. We walked for about twenty minutes and finally we realised that it was getting dark and we were still nowhere near the lake. We turned around and when we got back to the town, Nirāghadeva was still standing exactly where I left him. I shouted at him, “Hey! Why didn’t you get us a room?”
He said, “Err…well, I don’t think you’ll want to stay there” then he pointed and there was a bunch of Ethiopian prostitutes in the doorway. It wasn’t a hotel – it was a whore house!

We dragged our trunks and stuff down the road and eventually found another place which was advertising a dollar a room and it said ‘with bath.’ There were two ladies running the place and we made it very clear to them that we only wanted a place to sleep and take bath – and nothing else!! I paid them a dollar and we went to our room. It was about seven feet by eight feet with no windows and one bed in the middle, which was so funky, you wouldn’t want to sleep on it, no matter what. Then I opened the door to the bathroom – it was about a metre wide, with a hole in the floor for passing stool and urine. There was no tap, there was no nothing!
All of a sudden, there was a knock at the door and this lady was standing there holding a tray with a whiskey bottle filled with water. I asked her, “Where’s the bath??” She pointed at the whiskey bottle and said, “Bath”. That was all the water we got! We paid extra and got two more bottles for each of us. We had to stand above the hole in the ‘bathroom’ and wash ourselves.

Early the next morning, the devotees boarded the bus once more for the final leg of their journey to Addis Ababa. After a back-breaking ride on the dirt roads leading into the capital, they arrived at the main bus station in Addis Ababa at around ten o’clock that night. It was still teeming with buses, and amidst them stood a single street lamp, so small and dim that it barely cast any light. Beneath it sat a weathered phone booth that had clearly seen better days. Before leaving Kenya, Cyavana had given Mahārāja the phone number of Kedaranātha Śāstrī (popularly known as Śāstrī-jī), a prominent Hindu priest in Addis Ababa who was Cyavana Swami’s contact. Fortunately, the phone under the lamp was in working order. Unfortunately, no one was answering on the other end. For over an hour, Mahārāja kept trying to reach Śāstrī-jī. Meanwhile, one by one, every bus in the station pulled away, until finally, Mahārāja and his two companions were left alone in the now-deserted depot, standing under the faint glow of the single lamp post. As Mahārāja stood with the phone pressed to his ear, he glanced out toward the distant lights of Addis Ababa.

“Hello?”
The ring-back tone had suddenly stopped, and was replaced by a voice on the other end, amidst crackles and interference. Maharāja quickly pushed the coin he was holding into the slot. “Hare Kṛṣṇa” said Mahārāja, “Is that Śāstrī-jī?”
“Hello?”
“Hello – Hare Kṛṣṇa! Śāstrī-jī?”
“Yes. Hare Rāma Hare Kṛṣṇa!”
“We’re here.”
“…Hello?”
“We’re at the bus stand here in Addis Ababa.”
“Hello?”
Mahārāja spoke louder, “WE’RE AT THE BUS STAND!!”
“Yes…where are you?”
Exasperated, Mahārāja rolled his eyes and shook his head. “WE-ARE-AT-THE-BUS-STAND!” he shouted, enunciating each word slowly and clearly.
“Okay…”
Before Śāstrī-jī could say anything else, the line went dead. Mahārāja frantically searched his pockets for another coin, but they were empty. Neither Ajāmila nor Nirāghadeva had any change. With nothing else to do but hope that Śāstrī-jī had caught Mahārāja’s words before the call was disconnected, they all sat on the curb, pulled out their bead-bags and began chanting. Aside from the soft murmur of their japa, the only other sound was the chirping of crickets.

After forty-five minutes, they heard a car approaching in the distance. As it drew nearer, its headlights pierced the darkness of the bus stand, and it came to a screeching halt directly in front of them. Out stepped a cheerful, rotund Hindu gentleman with long grey hair and a beard. He wore a white Indian shirt and pants, a necklace of small rudrākṣa beads around his neck, and a red dot marked his forehead.
“Namaste, namaste! Hare Rāma, Hare Kṛṣna!” He exclaimed, beaming from ear to ear and placing his hands together. “Sorry that you are waiting for so long. You please get in.”
He gestured toward his car, and after all their luggage was loaded into the trunk, they set off.

The three devotees settled into the back seat as Śāstrī-jī and his son, who was driving, began to explain the volatile political situation in Ethiopia.
“Now is too much danger here! You have come at a very bad time. Only today we heard the news that the emperor has died. There is civil war here – some people support Haile Selassie, and some are against. The new government is killing many, many people who supported him. What will happen now, we don’t know.” Śāstrī-jī gave a sigh and shook his head, “Rāma, rāma! Very, very bad!”
Śāstrī-jī’s report was met with silence. He glanced back at his three passengers – each of them was wide-eyed with shock. After a brief pause, Mahārāja shared with Śāstrī-jī what the Ethiopian border guard had told them upon entry. “He said that if we did hari-nāma in the streets, we’d be shot dead.”
“Oh yes,” Śāstrī-jī responded matter-of-factly, wiggling his head, “You will definitely be shot dead. We are only doing the bhajanas at home or in the temple. You cannot chant Hare Rāma Hare Kṛṣṇa in the streets here – not possible!”

(The Derg Regime in Ethiopia 1975)

(Derg soldiers marching in the streets of Addis Ababa 1975)