The Ethiopian Fiancée

Out of the blue her letter arrived during my second year of working in the Saudi oilfields. Sweethearts during our university years, we had been regular correspondents while I was still in Australia on my first job after graduating, less so as I traveled through southern African countries up as far as Zambia and over to Angola. Now Julia was announcing her own Big Trip - predictably a couple of months in London, the Mecca for Aussies on the move. With endearing self-disparagement, she confessed a touch of apprehension at being away from home for so long, at the same time expressing grim determination that nothing would stop her now! More to the point, in front of me was Julia's beckoning question mark: Could we meet up, perhaps in London?

London?! Yukk. Any traces of appetite for the place that I might have ever had, had been erased by my own stay there, anchored as it was in the desire to see as much as I could of dear Aunt and Uncle who had settled in Wimbledon Park. Between English weather - not always dripping with rain but almost - and a stodginess in the way things worked, it was at best a highly overrated collection of dismal suburbs with ridiculous names like Tooting. My newly-focused attention repelled the concept as I gorged on the taste of the Middle East with its heat, its vast distances, its outrageously varying food and its inhabitants' quaint lack of logic with delicious touches of hypocrisy.

Should we meet up at all? We were both in the business of maturing, after all, if not willingly growing up. To get the most out of the situation, I concluded, why not maliciously set the barrier so high that she probably wouldn't come but I certainly couldn't be blamed for not dragging myself over to the UK? Much as I'd enjoy Julia's company, meeting up with her would have to be in the right setting. MAN, I'd had it with England!

"How about meeting up in Ethiopia? I'm on field break for ten days from August 18th". I grinned as I penned the words and stuck a hastily-addressed envelope in the mail. Short note for reply from Julia: "John-o, you drive a hard bargain but I've reserved a hotel in Addis Ababa from the 19th. Let me know your flight details." Locked in, though with the feeling these were my just deserts, I made the necessary arrangements - including the demoralizing exit visa that only entitles one to leave the Kingdom after a searching application and an excruciating wait, typically of eight days.

With a stopover in Jedda on the way, the flight itself went smoothly. I thought the elegant flight attendants very un-African and un-Arabian, though the sights out of the plane windows removed any doubts of geography. Already in the taxi from Addis airport I could see that Julia was in high spirits and, with so many exotic scenes to be had without leaving the capital, we were tempted to forget about exploring the countryside in favour of town-based sightseeing. A sense of adventure prevailed, however, so that the same afternoon we found ourselves checking for rental vehicle agencies. In relatively quick time I was at the wheel of an ageing Toyota Land Cruiser. With borrowed jerry cans and a foam mattress for camping in or out of the vehicle, we were set to lay in provisions and head north.

What a lovely country! For those who have never visited Ethiopia, an unusual drawcard may be that Haile Selassie, long-time ruler of that nation, is also held in reverence by Rastafarians as the Lion of Judah, the earthly representative of Jah, the almighty spirit of their persuasion. Yet it stands unmatched as the home of Africans who are dark-skinned but not negroid, having descended from a Hamitic race closer to the Arabs and proud of their own ancient languages and traditions. A good number of Ethiopians are in fact Coptic Christians in whose faith the tradition of becoming priest is held to be an honour that can be bestowed on almost anyone. About one male in six is a priest, distinguishing the national church as the religion with the most numerous and at the same time most illiterate priesthood on earth. Still, the purpose of this narrative is some distance from strict travelogue content, which therefore is limited to the essential for describing a series of notable Events.

As noteworthiness goes, one could say the most striking of these was the moment we overturned the vehicle. By the time we had reached Debre Markos, on the northern road out of Addis, I decided that we'd seen enough asphalt; it was time to experience Africa! Venturing left off the highway, which for the length of the town is on an east-west trajectory, we soon had the pioneering feel. With a smiling and confident start on the dirt road, we aimed roughly in the direction of Den**. To share the experience, I asked Julia if she'd driven a four-wheel drive and suggested she take the wheel.

Cruising a firm, beaten trail, it turned out, was different to descending into a dry river bed. Encouraging Julia onwards in spite of her deepening frown, I saw at one point that a challenge was coming up: wheel tracks narrowing to two ridges across an otherwise washed-out crossing, which would have represented a test even for experienced trial drivers. In the event, less than half way across the dip, the right-hand wheels slid left into the ditch and the vehicle ground to a halt amid broken glass and the scraping of bodywork on sun-hardened clay. Stuck!

With the door on my side pinned, the effort to clamber out through Julia's door - almost horizontal given our new position - proved to be monumental. Shaken, and somewhat sheepish, we took stock of our situation. Julia made a brave attempt to lift the Toyota by its roof while I checked for leaks of oil, fuel or water. Mercifully, there were none. Still, appreciation of the stunning dry countryside hardly made up for our predicament, especially as the afternoon was by now wearing on.

It was in one of the next few mock attempts to rock the vehicle out of its humiliating position that I became aware of another presence. At my elbow silently stood a native woman in robes and headwrap as if also sizing up the situation. A gentle waft of smoky air reached us with her slightest movement - she had evidently been cooking on an open fire - while her dignified dark face with its straight nose and narrow lips betrayed not the slightest emotion. A scurry behind us made Julia and me turn around, but for our new companion there was no surprise. A boy of perhaps twelve joined us in the contemplation of the jeep, then another slightly younger.

One by one they appeared: another woman from further down the river where they had been washing clothes in the remaining pools of muddy water; a young man in his twenties - a shepherd, we guessed from his wooden staff and greasy-wool, er, fragrance; two travelers from the paths radiating out to the villages curious about the commotion. By the time fifteen minutes had elapsed from the moment of our mishap, Julia and I were surrounded with no fewer than thirty people. This was horsepower! (no slight intended). It occurred to me that we had assumed the engine was inoperable - yet it had merely stalled. In spite of the angle at which it sat, perhaps it would start?

While I do not recollect the sign language we used to gather cooperation, the rocking motion Julia had initiated against the vehicle's roofline was certainly one of the gestures. With women, men, teenagers and as many children as could safely touch its bodywork while I started the engine, pointed the wheel uphill and let out the clutch, the Toyota grunted, scraped, slid sideways and then appeared to leap back up onto the two ridges. The tremendous strength of the many souls who wished us well had done its work, lifting us back onto the intended path. Half an hour after certain calamity, uncanny salvation had arrived. As if reversing its own arrival, in its silent, self-effacing way, our redeeming group started to break up as we hurriedly searched in our provisions for small gifts of appreciation. Each member resumed the day's burden, puzzled perhaps, though not troubled by our entry into the landscape.

(https://www.google.com/maps/place/Den,+Ethiopia/@10.094148,37.674332,90354m/data=!3m2!1e3!4b1!4m2!3m1!1s0x164e49aee1dd5b53:0xa84b38e051d5ce24)

Elated by the turn of events, we resumed the road on the river's far side, climbing through exquisite, though stunted, vegetation towards a flat formation we could make out as a tableland of sorts. Relief slowly sank in as our adrenaline-charged minds absorbed the greatness of redemption at the hands of unknown benefactors. Comforted and reassured, we crept forward for another half-hour. If the earlier part of the trail had been a holiday, the next section held no hurry and seemed to have no special goal. Approaching the brow of a hill our zero-stress mode suddenly vanished. In the middle of the road a person was waving to us, flagging us down. Instantly we made out that this was a non-African, a Westerner like ourselves. What was he even doing here, let alone asking us to stop? "Hi, I'm Mike", came the greeting as we pulled alongside in a small cloud of fine dust. "Where are you headed?"

That evening brought us into contact with Ethiopians like never before. In a large rondavel, or round thatched-roof hut standard to most parts of Africa, gentle hands delivered us tidbits of roasted goat meat, to be washed down with servings of smoky native beer. For variety, these were interspersed with the odd shot of corn liquor - strong, clean and authoritative. Trying our best to explain our own presence there, we learned from Mike, an Ohio resident and Peace Corps volunteer, that he had been trained to administer vaccines for the most prevalent illnesses - especially polio. In the eight months he had spent in the area, he had seen one other foreigner but certainly no white women.

In spite of markings on the map inferring the contrary, we had reached the end of the road. Remaining trails were too narrow and difficult for wheeled transportation. Mike himself performed his duties by traveling up to three days in one direction on donkey back, doing his best to convince reluctant villagers to permit their little ones to be pricked on the arm, discussing the effects of his work with local chiefs and returning to base to build up strength for the next mission. He had signed up for a year but, since his program was somewhat behind schedule, would probably overstay. Tuckered out as we were by the experiences of the day, we hit the bedroll early and awoke to receive cups of boiled water laced with milk and handfuls of berries from the surrounding hills.

If encountering Mike was Event Two, certainly the discovery that one of the four wheels of the Toyota had a flat tire was the third. Used solidly in African conditions, the tires on the Toyota had not been its strongest point, with the spare wheel declared damaged and unusable right at the agency's door. While a replacement had been ordered, it was still on the way. Though the vehicle carried a jack, even if we were to repair the flat there was no way to inflate it. There was no option but to roll the wheel to Debre Markos and back. How many kilometers was that again - oh, eight, said Mike. Possibly ten. Could be as much as twelve.

Whatever the distance, shepherding a full-size four-wheel drive wheel down embankments, across the well-remembered river bed, and along gently-sloping dirt road heading upwards, always upwards, could be numbered among the least rewarding enterprises on the planet. Reciting the world's collection of 'should-haves' and 'might-haves' - but later deciding to suppress these in favour of silently admiring the countryside - we were in sight of the town by about 2pm, succeeded in fixing our flat by about four, and rolled into camp at dusk, famished as we had only had time and concentration en route for an orangeade.

While the second return to Debre Markos, now in the comfort of an upright Toyota with all four wheels inflated, proved relatively smooth, the resultant sense of security in achievement led us head-on into Event Four. Tossing up whether to seek lodgings on the way or drive all the way to Addis, we were momentarily distracted when a medium-sized animal ran across the road chasing a smaller mammal, no doubt his next meal. "Fox!", I shouted, and without a thought turned off the asphalt to the left, through the drainage ditch and out along the fields, throwing the vehicle's transmission into 4-wheel-drive mode as I accelerated to see what the wildlife would do next. Wasn't that what a jeep was for? After a clearing, we roared onto a shallow depression still in pursuit of the fox who, true to instinct, zigzagged across the landscape in the process losing track of his prey but shaking us off his trail. Confused, slowing, changing gears, our initial momentum gone, we ground to a halt. Oh well ... ! But then, as the saying goes, we came to the bitter bit. The thoughtless chase had led us to the middle of a soggy marsh, stuck solid and with no way to move. Dig? a little. Jack up each corner? Nothing to use as a support. Look for dry timber to place under the wheels? It would take a small forest. As night approached, my own silent fury at having been so impulsive was eclipsed by the two trails of Julia's tears - one down each cheek. That hotel had sounded so great!

Camping inside a Toyota is possible, though it does not come highly recommended. Impromptu bedding spread over an uneven steel floor allows fitful sleep when the mosquitoes aren't in biting mood. In our case, between these conditions, attempts to wash off mud while sparing the last of our drinking water, and keeping windows closed to limit insect attack turned that night into one of the most uncomfortable of my life. I hadn't the heart to ask Julia her opinion.

Still, after hiking back to the road next morning and almost immediately flagging down a winch truck with a long cable on its drum - making the rescue from our muddy field a piece of cake - and the long-awaited cleanup in Addis, we were ready for Africa once more. South is drier - let's go there. No swamps. Dry land. Stopping on the way for sign-language chats with an incredible black-on-black shepherd, we made our way towards Boneya and the Melka Kunture prehistoric site on Route 51. Rather than a comment on race, this reference denotes a colour combination arising from the shepherd's exquisite skin, so dark it reflected tones of blue, and his thick black cloak. Topped off by a shiny ebony hairdo of matted locks soaked in beeswax and smoothed down over his scalp, all that remained of any other shade was the whites of his eyes and a becoming grin. Sizing up one another in response to a request for directions, each party to the face-to-face left the short meeting richer for the experience.

Believing ourselves to be ready for a relaxed lunch, we drove a short distance towards a farm laid out more along European lines, with a main house, barn, machinery sheds and other outhouses. If a meal were not served there, perhaps through a lead we could find one. Just inside the gate to the property we confronted the machine central to Event Five: an aeroplane of the most basic kind, a biplane. Its over-and-under wings were dusty and patched in places. A single hatch giving access to the interior was swung open, its crew no doubt at the house. As we ordered a hot lunch, which was indeed being served and to which we were invited for a small sum, a loud expression from the next room froze me in mid-sentence. Polish! Who would be speaking Polish in Ethiopia? Explaining to Julia that this was a mystery needing immediate resolution, I knocked on the doorframe and approached a trio of jolly-looking guys clad in short-sleeved khaki. A Panowie z jakiego miasta? - What town are you from?

Instantly turning towards the source of the question, all three faces betrayed disbelief and embarassment. Could the communist authorities have tracked them this far? Relief gradually taking the place of discomfort as I explained my migrant origins and introduced Julia, the handshakes went around and their break drew to a close. "How about coming up for a flip?" enquired the pilot, a man in his 40's named Czesiek. Hardly believing our ears at the chance for a look from the sky at the Ethiopian lowlands, we listened further as the airmen explained their crop-dusting mission as part of an Eastern Bloc effort to strengthen relations in Africa. All smiled as they heard our excited answer: "Of course we'll go!"

Following the pilot and co-pilot up the steeply-sloping inside of the fuselage, Julia and I at once took note of the unthinkable: of the two side-by-side seats in the cockpit, both were taken. Answering my look of bewilderment as the engine burped to life and the prop roared in front of us, the man behind the controls jerked his thumb backwards: "Just snuggle up to that bulkhead behind you. You'll be alright." Gathering speed, which at the point of leaving the ground could not have been more than 40 mph (60 kph), we wondered how much of an angle the little plane would need to assume before we hurtled through the clear plastic panels at each side; yet the centripetal forces of both climbing and banking pinned our feet and our backs hard against the surfaces as if by a miracle supporting them. Seconds later, the view below made us forget any of the untidy details related to our presence there, such as our safety. All we could do is wonder!

Buffalo, wildebeest, giraffe, elephant, antelope, ostrich, zebra in great herds - each took its place as we turned and swooped, drifted at low engine power, climbed again and descended to divide the panicking herds away from the plane's unfamiliar drone, much to our hosts' satisfaction. The evidence was in front of us to prove we were seeing Africa from the air - but, just as we had sprung upwards, within half a minute the fragile craft was bumping along the dusty strip towards the homestead and the waiting third crew member, the mechanic. Lost for words, Julia and I repeatedly thanked the guys for their thoughtfulness and good humour, adding a quip that by next time we hoped they could conclude a contract with Boeing so that there were enough seats for everybody.

In this barely imaginable state of euphoria, we had hardly said our farewells and cleared the plane when I asked Julia to marry me. "Of course!" she said. We were engaged!

Fine, but how would we work it out? Julia's return to London was fixed for the end of the week. From there she traveled onwards to relatives in Canada as part of the return route to Australia. Not much of that could vary. My own obligations held me in Saudi Arabia for months to come. With no experience in lifestyle decisions of this dimension, each of us went through the motions of winding down the Ethiopia odyssey racking our brains for options. At least, as far as getting an engagement ring to Julia was concerned, we could cover that by mail to the Canada address. Having convinced the rental agency that fixing two flat tires was almost the equivalent of replacing a broken side window on the Toyota, we handed back our vehicle in Addis, packed, and parted at the airport for flights within a couple of hours of each other.

Mail followed. A much-awaited postcard from London assured me that Julia had not changed her mind. Into a passport-sized packet I slipped the fanciest little ring I could find in the soukhs of Dammam, having hollowed out a hole in layers of cardboard to disguise its shape. Julia later wrote that it fit perfectly! Returning to the rigours of the oilfield I was eager for every word, starting with descriptions of Julia's resumption of studies and of work at the Australian Broadcasting Commission, where she headed the Pronunciations Department. However, between geography and our respective obligations, there was hardly any possibility of establishing subsequent milestones or of a timescale for meeting up. Everything was on hold.

Perhaps a subconscious effort to hurry things up took over. Maybe I daydreamed more often after Ethiopia, or it could also be put down to the familiarity with my job that bred complacency. Whatever the cause, I found myself going about my work in deep reverie, as if half stunned, unconcerned. Born of this frame of mind, two accidents occurred during those later months of 1972 in which I was the principal actor. In the first, my crew and I had been on the job non-stop for 58 hours. At a troublesome oil well, we were required to re-test the mechanical integrity of the casing. The procedure involved capping the wellhead with a sealing device, applying pressure, and repeating a survey taken earlier at zero pressure. Tired as we were, we had not noticed that, in the dead of night, one of the sealing elements had inadvertently been left out causing the device to leak. Repeated dismantling and reassembly did nothing to resolve the situation; however, a direct effect was to raise the ire of the contractor in charge of applying pressure. On about the fifth or sixth try, an impatient hand engaged the pump and our seal exploded! Fahad, my Saudi helper, instantly lost the three middle fingers of his right hand, while my left hand's middle and index fingers were blown open. I can remember the long ride to hospital during which Hamood, the other helper, drove at top speed despite my pleas that one disaster that morning was enough.

Less evident as to its gravity, though putting the icing on the cake immediately following a couple of weeks' recovery, came the second accident. Also at night, while spooling a cable out of a well I noticed that a single strand was missing - meaning that steel wire had balled up underneath the wellhead. Unable to reach base by radio, I took a decision which resulted in loss of instruments into the well. Following a costly recovery, I faced the division manager across a table for a dressing-down. Our company would defend me in front of the client, he explained, provided that I would agree to a second 18-month contract in the country. As an alternative, I would have to accept termination.

Putting matters of professional pride aside, I can remember the joy of waving farewell to the sandy stretches of the Peninsula as the plane headed west towards the Mediterranean. In Cyprus, I was to switch directions and check out the other side of the Middle East - Israel. Direct flights to Israeli destinations from most Moslem countries had long before been discontinued. Even maps portraying Israel, products from there or, of course, Israeli stamps in the passport of an intending visitor, were prohibited. In the event, a refreshing round of the Greek end of Cyprus and its gorgeous coasts provided background for the EL AL flight to Tel Aviv and a lively series of adventures there - no doubt better served in a separate story less concerned with my newly betrothed status. Suffice to say that with Bob, a young American I met as we were landing in Israel who also traveled solo, we agreed to split the cost of a rental car and tour the sights. Driving among the fabulous 3-tiered city of Haifa, Eilat by the Gulf of Aqaba, Tel Aviv itself, Bethlehem, and of course Jerusalem, we were able to appreciate the work ethic as well as the defense readiness of the country. Contrasts came to mind between the olive groves, citrus orchards and vineyards of Israel and the endless uncultivated sand of Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and Bahrain; between the alert, well-trained young sabras - as female conscripts were known - and the slow-moving Saudi soldiers leaning on their rifle butts, the muzzles of their guns in the sand as they gossiped and paid no attention to passers-by.

From Israel I flew onward to Paris, where I was able to connect with Bernard Seguinot, my colleague from the work I had left just a few weeks before, if only to commiserate. Bernard had also suffered an injury when a heavy piece of oilfield equipment was dropped on his hand. For a day or two we had occupied neighbouring beds in the Dhahran company clinic. In Paris he was booked in at a specialist hospital for rehabilitation, conveniently staying in the apartment of his mother who was out of town. By coincidence my brother Jack and his bride Jolanta, who as newlyweds were touring Europe at that time, were able to spend an impressive evening with Bernard and myself in the Pigalle district. Strolling the sidewalks there was slow going: from the door of almost every bar or other place of entertainment, the girls would gather to wave to Bernard and ask when he would drop in - clearly not as a first-timer.

A couple of days of that grey November week were taken up by visits to my former employer's offices in regard to compensation for the injuries I had suffered in Saudi. As an outcome to several rounds of negotiation in which I expressed doubt that I could ever play the piano again, the amount I was to receive increased nearly threefold, though still remaining very modest. Evenings were for exploring Paris and checking out its nightlife! At Cave de la Huchette, probably my favourite jazz venue of all time, visiting artists made the old walls ring with splendid sax, trumpet and clarinet numbers. While the classical music scene proved much calmer, I took in one or two concerts in the French style, which takes advantage of the superb acoustics of stone churches and tiered-balcony theatres. At one of these, my assigned gallery seat happened to be next to two girls from the U.S. on a 3-month program to improve their language skills.

Impressed already by the fluency in French of the more outgoing of the two, a student from Boston named Katrina, I was delighted to find that she was also of Polish background. Sharing my plans for a visit to America before year-end, I noted down her phone number and promised to stay in touch. Before being able to follow through on this commitment, however, there was a lot to do. Aunt and Uncle in London were traveling over to Poland for Christmas; there were members of the family there whom I hadn't met and wanted to at least get to know. In all the movement and confusion, it was after New Year before my plane touched down in New York and the Boston-bound bus brought me to Katrina's doorstep. Though temperatures were never below -7 degrees C, my impression was that I was going to die of cold - starting with frostbite to the ears which felt like they were already due to fall off.

Having read extensively on oceanography and underwater engineering, I was convinced that this was the opportunity of the future. Not only were the depths of the sea being mined for nodules of manganese and other valuable elements, there was increasing emphasis on the oceans as a source of food in the form of edible marine plants, shellfish farmed through aquaculture and protein-rich substances from krill. Subsea habitats were being investigated. Implantation of gills, to give humans the ability to remain under water for extended periods without SCUBA equipment, was being tried and a whole new field of knowledge was being explored at established marine institutes dotted around the planet. Two of them - Woods Hole and Scripps - were in the U.S. While staying in London with Aunt and Uncle, I spent a string of mornings researching the possibilities and taking careful note of the addresses of leading ocean-related organizations.

With new responsibilities on the horizon linked to my engagement to Julia, landing a job in an ocean-engineering company became a strong motivation. I discussed my interest extensively in the days after arriving in Boston with Katrina who, it turned out, was herself pursuing a science course at Harvard although she worked part-time at a publications house to stay solvent. At the same time, I priced used cars which I thought might be up to the task of transporting me around the country to knock on doors.

It soon became apparent that, with purchase and insurance, perhaps a few repairs, and fuel for the thousands of miles the trip would require, even if I lived in the car and spent very little on food, my plans exceeded budget by several thousand dollars. From Scripps on Rhode Island, close to Boston, the target organizations were spread south to New York, Virginia and Florida, across to Texas, onward to California and lastly to Chicago - a neat circle of the lower 48. It was then that Katrina, sensing my dismay, voiced the immortal words, "Hey, I've got a car!"

"Sure", I replied, "but don't you also have a job?"

"I'll quit. There won't be another chance like this one."

Katrina's Datsun 1200 two-door wasn't the roomiest car ever made but it was relatively new, paid for, and twice as economical as any of the cheaper old-timers I could have afforded. Besides, with two drivers the trip would be far less daunting. Once I got used to the idea, I saw that Katrina's offer was a godsend. To cover an unspoken but important aspect of our friendship I explained that, since I was engaged to be married, the terms would be strictly platonic, a proviso to which Katrina readily agreed. True to her word, the next day she gave her employer notice of termination while I packed and prepared the little car for the odyssey. With Woods Hole taken in on a solo day trip, we were set to go.

The journey took us about five weeks - and what weeks they were! After staying with Katrina's relatives on Staten Island, we headed south to Norfolk, where the huge naval bases lay claim to almost every type of marine technology being developed. Being a member of the military appeared to be a prerequisite for any type of cooperation in these establishments. In Florida we visited Perry, a company leading the effort on underwater habitats as well as building midget submarines. Its bread-and-butter business turned out to be flotation devices for the offshore oil industry. Was it ever cold! Waking after a night's sleep in the car outside Baltimore, we were horrified to see ice on the INSIDE of the windows. Florida was the first place I had seen grapefruit, still on the tree, with icicles hanging off each perfect yellow sphere. Onwards to Houston we drove, with contacts at Shell and Gulf Oil to follow up. For these impromptu interviews, I took extra care to use the outside rear-view mirror while shaving and asked Katrina to make sure my tie was straight as we packed the car outside of town and hit the rush hour.

It began to dawn on me that hiring on with a company in the U.S. was not immediately compatible with my recent decision regarding Julia. How would this all function? Could I keep up correspondence from Australia and hope to land a job, or would I need to abandon any thoughts of an extended period in Australia and either stay on in the U.S. or return without delay? Expressing some of these concepts in letters written hurriedly on the road I asked Julia to share her views, nominating the main post office in San Francisco as a mailing point. We would be there in a few days, I said, enthusiastic about the break I'd been given by Katrina's kind offer to use her vehicle and share the driving.

With the magic of Scripps Institute in San Diego behind us, having taken in everything from research vessels fitted out for months of undersea exploration to an astounding aquarium of rare, wildly-coloured marine life, we turned north along the California coast. Unable to deny our curiosity at places made famous during the 60s, we took in Big Sur and the fabled Monterey Peninsula with its sea otters lazily drifting on their backs in the Pacific, and made San Francisco just before post-office closing time. Delighted and relieved at being able to catch up with news from my parents, who had also written care of the drop-off, I literally devoured the words pouring off the pages of two letters from Julia. However, in the first I felt disappointed at her response to my international job-seeking efforts. Wasn't she my one and only, to whom I was promised? Didn't we have an arrangement that, after a regrettable but necessary transition period, we'd be able to travel the world, each of us pursuing a career? And yet a paraphrase of her lines read Yes, I understand that you're doing this for us, but I seem to be the one doing all the understanding while you're the one having all the fun!

More troubling still, the second letter contained a scrap of newspaper, an excerpt from the social columns of the Sydney Morning Herald formally announcing our engagement. While I might have been equally proud to tell the world our news, the stiff-looking print smacked of needless hurry geared to the workings of a straight-laced, highly conventional society. In any case, my parents were yet to become aware of our plans and, while I trusted Julia's sense of discretion, it was difficult to comprehend their being left out of the picture. On the other hand, when it came to the small farm I was paying off near Morisset, a couple of hours out of Sydney, Julia informed me that she and her mother had already driven up to take a look at it. What did they think it was, some kind of dowry? Couldn't the assessment of our material status have waited for my return?

At that point, I shared with Katrina both the strength of my feeling of commitment and the cause of my concern. Certainly, the wind had gone out of my sails - so to speak - and neither the career-development mission in the U.S. nor my imminent return to Sydney seemed to have any appeal at all. Following the much-acclaimed Route 66 proved a temporary distraction, however, as we whizzed through Sacramento, across Nevada via Las Vegas and onwards to Chicago where Katrina had still more relatives to visit. In what seemed like a flash we were back on the snowy streets of Boston where I once again serviced the car, enjoyed a parting meal at Katrina's place and was aboard the bus for New York and the plane to Australia.

Reflecting all the while on the misinterpretation, as I saw it, of my intentions to secure Julia and myself a future internationally, the earlier conviction that I'd been on the right track started to weaken. Greeted warmly by my family in Sydney, I delayed contact with her for three days, following which I drove out to rented digs in Bondi Junction at which she was staying with a girlfriend. After talking for an hour or more, during which time Julia showed me the ring I had sent and made it clear that she had been awed by our experiencesin Ethiopia, we decided to take a walk.

- "So how long do you see us staying overseas?" came her leading question.

- "I don't know", I replied. "Hadn't thought of setting any time limit. Why?"

- "Well, anything longer than about four or five years and we'd have to come back to Australia ... because by that time I'd like to be thinking about starting a family."

- "Why couldn't we do that in another country?"

- "Well, we could. It's just that the children would need to go to school. And this is where the best schools are."

- "How do you know? You haven't been anywhere that would allow you to compare them."

- "They just are."

My mind raced. The ominous pause loudened our steps as we strolled on. Did she mean it? Could it be that anyone could consider trading the exhilaration of world travel, its gifts and experiences for the comfy narrowness of the Sydney environment? How was this possible? Had I overstepped the mark; had I been thoughtless in assuming that this person in whom I'd placed so much hope was simply going to dance to my tune without any care for her own future, her own preferences? Plainly, nothing jived.

"Julia", I stammered, "Please forgive me. It's not you; it's me. I have expectations that I mightn't have made clear to you. It's just as well we're talking about this now, 'cause it doesn't look like an engagement between us is going to be any good."

To Julia's credit, she started to re-visit the issue of living internationally rather than anchoring in Australia. All the same, the conversation fell away. An exchange of promises to call if one or the other of us had any new thoughts, a faltering wave of the hand - and it was over. There was never going to be an Ethiopian bride.