The Scent of Eucalyptus: A Missionary Childhood in Ethiopia

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Summary: Contrasting The Zanzibar Chest with The Scent of Eucalyptus
Review: If you were born in Africa of foreign parents or spent most of your childhood years in Africa, you owe it to yourself to read these two books. Whether your experiences were positive and you have returned to Africa as an adult, or whether you need catharsis from emotional wounds Africa is so adept at administering, these authors will provide contrasting mirrors in which to search for your reflection.

The Zanzibar Chest describes a Reuters war correspondent's life-experiences (mostly Africa), including the meandering description of a colonial officer's death, as described in a diary left to Hartley in his deceased father's carved Zanzibar chest. The Scent of Eucalyptus uses the foreign gum tree, widely planted in Africa, to symbolize a missionary child's nostalgic return, as an adult, to Ethiopia; the last part of the book is spent attempting to debunk the widespread academic view that missionaries were inept, short-sighted religious fanatics that spread cultural disarray in Africa and like places. Both books have much insight to offer those who would understand the world-views of Europeans raised in an African setting and who then spend a lifetime striving to amalgamate the various cultures that make up their characters.

Given the first person singular that dominates these non-fiction efforts, a certain amount of narcissism is to be expected. Both books suffer from a lack of focus, since neither have a readily discernable central plot. They jump between present and past, between what the authors perceive is their African story and the story of others around them. Anyone who has suffered culture shock or it's lifelong after-tremors can relate to this sense of what I call "socio-cultural netherness". The experiences these authors relate explore the trauma of self-imposed (in Hartley's case) or childhood (Coleman) African experiences that flash back uninvited for all of us Africans of foreign blood, long after they are relegated to suppressed memory. Sitting at my desk I can relive a decades-old Angolan war scene in crimson detail yet forget what was said at my last annual job evaluation. This lack of plot in both books, therefore, is understandable to me personally but makes categorization of these books difficult.

Having read these two books at the same time, I was struck by the contrast in world views from authors with fairly similar childhood backgrounds. Both were born and raised in Africa, fluently spoke, at one time, at least one African language, while growing up in strongly colonial (or neo-colonial) family settings. The privileged backgrounds of private schools and relative wealth contrast with the stress of social and emotional disconnect with everyone (including non-African raised parents) except those similarly lost.

Both authors portray, in unusually gentle terms, their parents' failure to change Africa. Coleman's missionary family's calling to evangelize Ethiopia's ancient Christianity is portrayed as sincere by an author who himself appears to have rejected their brand of theism. He even goes to great lengths to deflect the cultural imperialism his academic colleagues in Canada attribute to the entire missionary effort of the past few centuries.

Hartley, by contrast, minces no words describing his parents' failure to protect Africa from itself, first as British colonial servants and then as post-colonial development workers in the service of "do-gooder" foreign organizations. But, for a war correspondent, his writing is almost sympathetic as he describes his father's failure as agriculturalist, husband and parent, contrasting these with physical and social sacrifices in remote regions that eventually lead the elder Hartley to "go native" by starting an ultimately failed parallel African family. Both the newly arrived Canadian missionaries and the long-established British expatriates are well-intentioned Europeans who, if they change Africa, do so in completely unintended ways. Africa, it is clear, changes those who come to change it.

There the similarities end, however. Although Hartley is no saint, unapologetically describing his debaucheries while constantly living on the edge in Africa's hellholes, he appears more attuned to his own immortality than Coleman. During several occasions in which Hartley assumed his life was prematurely ended by violence, accident or disease, he finds comfort in the spiritual realm. He also searches for humanity buried in the inhumanity surrounding a war correspondent. Coleman, living the quiet, sheltered life common to most Westerners of the northern hemisphere, hints at agnosticism that does not require religion to get him through the drudgery of a predictable day-to-day.

Coleman describes his surprisingly detailed African experience through the rose-tint of a returning, long-absent son. His rejection of an absorbed (if not genetic) Africaness, as implied by never having returned to live there as an adult, leads him to choose the sedentary, colorless life of a Canadian academic. No surprise, then, that he describes his childhood experiences and defends his missionary roots with seemingly little understanding of the broader impact his culture, his nation, and his family have had (intentionally or not) on Africa. Yet one can tell from his ramblings, inspired by a short visit to his childhood haunts, that Africa has never quite left him.

In violent contrast, Hartley over-loads his writing with realism that describes, in mind-numbing detail, the atrocities Africans commit on each other as the world feigns disinterest while simultaneously devouring Hartley's gristly Reuters reports. Ethiopian, Rwandan, or Mozambican post-colonial traumas spill out in maggot-infested, visceral stench. If your African experience ended twenty years ago with picturesque village scenes and verdant boarding school rugby pitches, Coleman will help you catch up on what you have missed in the mean time. It may even temporarily cure your chronic nostalgia.

These two books are worth the read, if for different reasons. Coleman's quiet childhood memories of an Africa that, even then, was crumbling, remind us of what we often forget from our own childhood. Hartley slams us back to earth, reminding us that Africa is far from the simplistic, idyllic land of our youth. Both versions are correct, both versions worth reliving.