About the Book
Title: The Watermelon King
Author: Daniel Royse
Genre: Literary Fiction
After being laid off
from his job at a prestigious consulting firm, Dean decides to embark on a
journey across east Africa with his younger brother. Unknowingly, the two
travel into bandit territory through Northern Kenya where a medical emergency
forces them to choose between their safety and their health.
Inspired by true
events, The Watermelon King follows the journey of two brothers as they
backpack across one of East Africa’s most inhospitable regions. As they endure
endless days of difficult travel, a series of short stories written by their
father begins to uncover some of their deepest motivations and brings to light
their connection to the past. Along the way they begin to understand the beauty
and frustration of life in Africa.
Author Bio
Daniel Royse is the founder and editor in chief
of the online travel publication, This Boundless World. He has written numerous
articles on travel, business and politics. The Watermelon King is his first
full-length novel.
Daniel is an obsessive
writer and explorer who has backpacked to over 50 countries, spanning five
continents. To the disbelief of many, he still enjoys long, hot bus rides
through chaotic places.
Links
Excerpt
It wasn’t long before we reached the edge of the Mercado. At
the end of the road we could see it in front of us, a dense mass of humanity
seething with commerce. Like an open plain leading up to a dense forest, there
was no uncertainty as to where it began.
“Come. We can see the shops,” said Staven.
The four of us successfully managed to “Frogger” ourselves
across the heavy traffic without a single man down. Once on the other side we
cautiously stepped into the madness of the Mercado. Staven and Abdi walked in
front leading us through the tiny winding alleyways while pointing out the
various aspects of the market that made it unique.
On every side of us were shopkeepers selling all types of
products. Some new some recycled. Some local, some shipped from across the
world. Some of the goods were familiar like lawn chairs and pots and pans.
Others were strange to see like old boom boxes and wicker baskets over flowing
with exotic spices. The walkways became smaller as we hiked deeper into the
heart of the commerce and with every step we took; more eyes began to focus on
us. It appeared that we had entered a part of the Mercado that few foreigners
visit, thanks to our new “friends”.
Staven explained to us that within the madness there was an
order that lay beneath the surface. Despite the chaotic appearance, the market
was arranged into sections, each one focusing on a specific product or
category. Food stuffs, electronics, aluminum, spices, plastics…all organized
into their own sections.
After about 15 minutes into the Mercado we had reached an
obstacle in our path. Before us flowed a slow moving river of sewage at the
bottom of a six-foot deep ravine surrounded by trash on all sides. With only a
pair of two by eight inch boards laid across each bank for a makeshift walking
bridge, people crossed effortlessly from side to side. One wrong step and it
suddenly became a horrible afternoon. Staven and Abdi crossed along with
everyone else without a second thought, while Ethan and I needed a minute to
assess the situation.
“Holy shit!” Ethan’s eyes grew large. “What the hell is
this?”
“This, my friend, is a river of shit.”
“You’re not kidding.”
We both paused for a moment staring at our only option
across. It was either cross the wobbly 16-inch bridge or turn around and admit
right then and there that we were no match for even the simplest Ethiopian
obstacle. With dozens of eyes staring at us, our pride was now on the line.
There was no other choice. With a sudden acceptance, Ethan simply shrugged his
shoulders and walked across the bridge. In many ways he was more daring than I
was, and this time it showed.
“Come on man, it’s easy. Get over here!” he shouted from the
safe side.
Being the last man standing, I had no other alternative but
to cross the bridge. As I cautiously made my way forward, the two wooden planks
wobbled uncomfortably beneath my feet. The six feet of distance across felt
like twice that. With hands stretched out like a gymnast, I slowly started on
my way to the other side. With each foot carefully placed in front of the
other, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that there were now people on both
sides waiting for me to get off the bridge. The pressure didn’t help the
situation. For a second as I focused on the bystanders instead of the wobbly
planks, I began to feel myself leaning too much to my right. It was too late. I
couldn’t catch my balance. In one swift move I jumped from the plank with my
left foot and landed on the other side. With a deep exhale; I stood there relieved
that I didn’t fall into the river of shit below.
Despite my inner turmoil no one else seemed to notice; after
all, it was only a six-foot crossing. Within seconds a woman with a basket on
her head nudged me aside and crossed the bridge without the slightest
inconvenience.
As if he had no idea why I was taking so long, Staven simply
said, “Come, this way!”
The dynamic between our two new friends was slowly becoming
clear. Staven was the talkative one, and the obvious leader. He had an aura of
urgency about him, something that made his movements seem slightly aggressive.
Abdi, on the other hand, rarely said a word and was perfectly content being
led. He seemed to be an observer of life, satisfied with simply keeping to
himself the things that transpired in his mind. If they weren’t so different
they would have never gotten along so well.
We turned a corner to reach the end of an alleyway. Before
us, it opened up to a large expanse where hundreds of people worked diligently
in chaotic harmony. This was the “recycling center” of the Mercado.
“My friends, this is where we make old things new,” said
Staven.
“Old things new?’ Ethan replied.
“Yes, unlike in your country we recycle everything we can.
What you call trash, to us can still have good use.”
There, in the open expanse of the Mercado was the most
unique aspect of any market I had seen anywhere. It was where trash came to be
reborn. There were sections where people sat diligently pounding bent rebar
straight again. Women sat on crates in the dirt in long rows viciously
scrubbing old pots and pans to a like-new shimmer. Old electronics like 1980’s
style Boom Boxes were carefully being repaired and old plastic bottles were
rounded up for re-use. For people who have so little everything that can be
reused, is reused. Our wasteful culture back home would be wise to take notes.
Despite the uniqueness of the area, we made our way through
it fairly quickly. There was so much chaos occurring all around us that it felt
odd to be standing in the way of it all. When we reached the edge of the
Mercado it was obvious that the commerce jungle had ended abruptly. From where
we stood, the rest of Addis began again.
“My friends, that was the Mercado. As you can see it is
quite large!” said Staven.
“Pretty cool, should we grab a drink?” Ethan said as he
surveyed the streets in front of him.
“Okay, now we drink!”
exclaimed Staven, like a man on a mission.
He led and we followed. And as we followed, we made our way
down the main thoroughfares of Addis slowly approaching the neighborhoods in
the outer areas. The roads changed from wide lanes with partial sidewalks to
narrow lanes made of dirt and gravel. On the sides of the road, the partial
sidewalks slowly morphed into ditches that collected rainwater and trash. The
further away we progressed from the city center, the more people began to stare
as we passed by. We were approaching areas that saw few foreigners. As the dirt
roads began to change into alleyways, I began struggling to keep my sense of
direction. Winding and turning, dodging kids on bikes and potholes...we kept
moving until all of a sudden, we stopped.
There, to the left of us was a small gap about four feet
wide between two cement houses, both of which appeared to be abandoned. It was
nearly pitch black now as we were well beyond the parts of town that had
streetlights. As we walked single file into the space between the two houses,
we could hear the noise increase as we approached. We followed Staven and Abdi
through an opening and down a set of cement stairs that led into a small dimly
lit room. At its entrance, an overweight woman was sitting in a chair guarding
the door. It appeared as if she knew Staven and immediately granted us passage
by simply exchanging a few words and nodding in his direction.
Through the smoke and haze we could barely make out the
faces looking back at us but it seemed as if many of them were under 18 years
old. Before we had arrived they were all drinking and speaking loudly in
Amharic, but nearly instantaneously the conversation stopped and all eyes
focused on us.
Staven began to speak to a few of them in Amharic and smiles
slowly began to creep across their faces. Within moments, the drinking
continued and the gathering was back to its original intensity. While he spoke
the women at the door had turned around and began to fill up four small glasses
with a clear vodka-like drink. She passed them to Staven.
“Here!” he said. “This is arak.”
“Arak?” I said confused. “What is it?”
“Alcohol,” he said as if he was speaking to a child. “It
will be 20 Birr.”
We paid, of course. It was simply unspoken that we would pay
for every cost incurred that evening. After all, we made more in a day than
they made in a month and things were cheap.... really cheap.
Without hesitation Staven and Abdi began to drink, then
Ethan, then me. Forcing a look of disgust into one of acceptance, I slowly
choked down my beverage. It burned like any liquor but with a distinct flavor
of rubbing alcohol. It turned out that it was a standard homemade rice wine
concoction. Here they call it “arak”, in other regions “roxy”, but in most
places it’s just referred to as “rice wine”. I’ve even seen it come in little
plastic bags while in some countries. But let me tell you, when you start
drinking liquor out of a little plastic bag, you know that you’ve reached a new
stage in life.
With any homemade rice wine I knew there were inherent risks
involved, but sometimes you just end up putting trust in people, smart or not.
A few years back I had been traveling in Cambodia when a batch of bad rice wine
had killed off an entire village of men. The problem is that there’s no
regulation on this stuff, so it’s up to the guy brewing it in his bathtub to
not add anything deadly to the mix. Luckily for us, this was a good batch.
As we drank we made small talk with those who were able to
work up the nerve to mingle with us. And the more we drank the more the
overweight lady in the corner would refill our cups. As I looked around the
cramped and dingy room, I realized that even on the other side of the world in
a place so far removed, kids are all the same. Whether they live here in
Ethiopia, North Dakota or California, kids everywhere are just trying to party.
It didn’t take long before our group got anxious and it was
time for us to make our way to our next destination. We said our goodbyes, paid
our bill and thanked them for their hospitality. At this point the sun was
beginning to go down and we were starting to feel good. We made our way back to
the alley outside of the two abandoned-looking houses and began our walk back
towards town.
“So now what?” said Ethan, clearly ready for the evening to
get into full swing.
Ethan was an instigator. He was that guy who always kept the
party going or was pushing for the next one to start. Every crew needed an
“Ethan”.
Staven chimed in, “We can do anything! We have bars, whore
houses, chat houses. There are many things in Addis. What do you like?”
It was becoming clear that Ethan and Staven were feeding off
each other’s energy. And to top it off, their motivations complimented each
other. Ethan was looking for a good time, which Staven could provide and Staven
was looking for a free night out, which Ethan was more than willing to cover.
They were unstoppable.
“Chat house? What’s that?” Ethan said.
“It is a place where people go to chew chat together…like a
bar or a restaurant but for chat,” Staven explained.
“And what the hell is chat? He said as he looked at me to
see if I knew what this stuff was.
“Oh sorry,” I said. “It’s local plant that people chew to
get high. It’s a stimulant but it takes a while to kick in. It doesn't mess you
up but it does wake you up!”
“So it’s like coke?”
“Eh, not really. I’d say it falls somewhere in between
cocaine and coffee...but it’s legal here.”
“Oh, we’ve got to try this!” he said with excitement. “Have
you tried it before?”
“Yeah, a few times. It’s alright,” I said, as if I was a
veteran chat chewer.
“Well, how to we find it?” Ethan exclaimed.
“You want chat? We can get that. Come! My friend will sell
to us,” said Staven.
Staven had a friend for everything.
As we walked in the direction of Staven’s “chat guy” we made
our way out of the small alleys and dirt roads and onto an area closer to the
city center. We were still on the peripheral but now much closer. From where we
stood in the darkness, I could see the glow of Addis in the distance. So at
least I had a general direction of how to get back if needed.
The streets were still dark without public lighting and the
only light that filled the air came from small fires or individual light bulbs
hanging from private residences. People walked through the darkness chatting as
stray dogs scrounged for food in the stillness. It was hard to picture a chat
house in a place like this but what did I really know. This was a local area.
“You will like chat,” Staven assured Ethan. “It is very nice
for staying awake and fucking a long time!...hahaha!”
Awkwardly, Ethan just looked at him and smiled, “Haha,
okay.”
Within a few moments we had reached our destination. It was
a rickety looking house with the front door closed. Beams of light broke
through the cracks in the door, illuminating the street in front of us. With a knock
and a push, Staven opened the door and a bright neon light shined down on us
from the open entrance of the chat house. We walked in single file.
The room was painted bright pink with eight chairs
positioned in a semi-circle and a small blue table set in the middle. As we
entered the room I could see we were in the right place. There were already
three guys sitting there sharing a bushel of chat. They glared at us with beady
eyes and eerie smiles as they continued to chew chat and smoke cigarettes. The
smoke in the air was thick and ventilation was non-existent.
“Please sit. I will speak with the manager,” Staven
instructed as he walked off.
We pulled up three chairs in a row across from the first
three chat-chewers in the semicircle. Abdi sat closest to them. For a moment we
sat in silence as we waited for Staven to return. The guys across from us
smiled with ever more welcoming gestures as Abdi began to make small talk in
Amharic. Perhaps he was vouching for us.
I could tell that Abdi was a quiet yet friendly guy. He had
a slightly nerdy or analytical vibe about him. If he had been born in the
states I could see him being a software developer in Silicon Valley. He
reminded me a lot of the people I used to work with in that area.
It wasn’t long before Staven returned with two bushels of
chat, each in a black plastic bag and two glass bottles of Coca-Cola. He shut
the door behind him and sat down in one of the vacant chairs.
“Okay my friends!” he said in excitement as he placed the
bushels on the blue table and pulled the first one out of the black plastic
bag.
He and Abdi began to dig into the first bushel as if they
couldn’t wait. Ethan and I sat watching cautiously. Staven carefully pulled the
tips off each of the leaves and proceeded to roll them into a tiny ball. He
handed the first ball to Ethan.
“Here, try this,” he said.
“So how do I do this exactly?” Ethan replied in amusement.
“Just take these leaves and chew them. You can swallow the
juice. If the taste is too bad for you, you can take some Coke,” he said as he
handed Ethan the first bottle of Coke anticipating a negative reaction from the
chat.
“Some people like to eat the whole leaf and the stem, but
they are savages! We only eat the tips of the leaves because they are the best!
Staven then glanced at me, “You have had chat before, yes?”
“Sure. I’ve tried it a few times since I’ve been here,” I
said.
“Excellent! Please, help yourself,” he said with a smile.
As we sat there chewing our chat our heart rates began to
speed up, our pupils dilated and the room slowly began to get more and more
friendly and vibrant. I could feel my mouth getting dry but I was slowly
getting used to the taste of the bitter chat leaves. Still, my Coca-Cola
consumption remained constant. The room was filling with cigarette smoke as the
chat-induced adrenaline surged through us. Our group had merged with the one
next to us, although Abdi sat in the corner not saying much as usual.
Whenever we didn’t chew the chat fast enough, Staven would
roll us a little ball of leaves and give it to Ethan or me. It was hard to keep
up and my cheeks began to become full of green leaves. The bottles of Coke made
their way around the room but Ethan and I drank the majority, as we were new to
the harsh taste of the leaves.
As the minutes passed and the first bushel made way for the
second, we kept chewing and kept on talking. But the second bushel went faster
than the first and soon, through the smoke and conversation, it was evident
that our stash was nearly depleted. Energized and ready to hit the town, we all
agreed that it was time to head to the bar. Before we could leave, however, we
had to pay our bill. Again, this fell on us. And I knew from experience that
when you don’t get the price up front, you end up paying for it in the end. Sure
enough, that is exactly what happened.
After a few moments of sitting there chat-less, a small boy
approached us with a yellow post-it note sized piece of paper and handed it to
Staven. He looked at it and immediately came over to explain it to me.
“The price is 700 Birr, 300 for each bushel of chat and 100
for the Cokes,” he said cautiously as if he was expecting some push back from
me.
“Ohh okay. That should be no problem,” I said.
He was in luck. I was feeling generous from the chat and
actually I was expecting it to be higher. The total cost came to around $30
USD, much more expensive than it should have been but nothing that would break
the bank.
Once paid up, we were free to leave and from the comfort of
our cozy little chat den we made our way into the dark desolate side streets of
Addis Ababa toward the more lively area of the Piazza. This, the historical
Italian area, was now known mostly for pickpockets, hookers, drinking and all
types of general debauchery.
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