"Engulfato"-ed and Going Nowhere
By: Yared Mengistu

The car sputtered and died somewhere between the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Jubilee Palace. Notwithstanding the pretty surroundings, pushing the car out of the way of oncoming traffic was an embarrassing affair. A few minutes later, the car was parked at the African Unity park. Amid the lush trees planted by the likes of Jomo Kenyatta and Sedar Senghor, and with the exotic roars of the lions still gracing the old Emperor's palace compound serving as background, the hood was popped open, and we were all sticking our curious noses underneath it, eager to figure out the mystery.

As a schoolboy, anything out of the ordinary was an event, and even though I knew I was going to be late for school, this was excitement! I had looked with envy at my father doing the "fun" jobs…cleaning out the carburetor, replacing the brake pads, drying out the distributor caps after a wash, changing spark plugs, etc.…while I was relegated to the mundane task of washing the car. So a chance to look at the guts of this old Renault was wonderful.

Not too long after the car had come to a complete standstill, we were surrounded by the (expected) spontaneously formed band of would-be analysts and troubleshooters. None looked like he had ever had a day's worth of formal education, but soon exotic words were emanating from everyone's lips.

"Frisionu alqo new," says one.
"Yenedaj tubow tedefno new," says another.
"Engulfato huno new," says a third.

Of all the words I heard that morning, it was this last one, "engulfato", that somehow captured my fancy. I knew "frision" and "yenedaj tubo" but "engulfato" sounded like some major catastrophe. The mystery about its meaning and its possible power made even more of an impact when I eventually heard the word used again during the exercise of the cure, which involved unplugging a tube, sucking gasoline from it, running the engine without the tube, and spitting the gasoline into what I later found out was the "carburetor". As far as I was concerned, this was surgery of no minor consequence. I had seen what was done, but the words used in the process of diagnosing and curing the problem were so alien that I felt I needed to be initiated into some arcane priesthood.

"Engulfato", I was told, referred to a condition where there is too much fuel in the carburetor of a car. The air-fuel mixture becomes too rich and the engine just cannot find enough air to burn the fuel supplied to it. Of the crowd that hung around, most had heard of the word, and some had lucked out in using the word when diagnosing our problem. Most had no idea what it meant. There were a couple of people who did, and yes, they were among the initiated few who had had the luck of working in a garage where this particular word resides in comfort.

But did they know what the word implied?

Years later, I found out that "engulfato" was an Italian word, and its English translation was -- hold on to your seats -- "engulfed". For someone who knew Italian, hearing the word "engulfato" conveyed something infinitely more than a particular type of problem in an internal combustion engine. An old Italian nun who had never left her convent outside of Venezia would, on hearing the word "engulfato", immediately want to know what was engulfed and with what. She would sense that the condition of being engulfed perhaps needed reversing -- where some excess fluid would probably have to be removed or reduced. And thus, from a single word she would have a sense of the problem, and some idea of its solution.

In a sense, societies such as Ethiopia's are versions of the schoolboy that I was back then. We are aware that there is some vast world of extremely useful and pertinent knowledge out there, but we do not have easy access to it because the gateway to this knowledge is an alien language. There is a severe disjoint between the language that the society at large uses to define and celebrate itself, and that which the society's thinkers and teachers use to retain, ponder and enrich their skills and wisdom.

Imagine yourself a native Amharic speaker walking down one of Addis' promenades and seeing a car rendered immobile. You have never heard Italian, cannot read English and have never worked in a garage. You crowd in to find out what is going on. Which of the following two descriptions of the problem would be enlightening?

1. "Carburettoru engulfato hono new," or
2. "Ye-ayer inna nedajj medebaleQiyaw be nedajj teTleqlqo new"

Obviously, response number two not only explains the situation much better, but has the added benefit of having taught a layperson something about how an engine works. Even more important, this statement could potentially spark an interest among the uninitiated in some of the mechanical arts.

There are so many dimensions to this issue of language and knowledge that no one paper can do it justice. But this author is convinced that a discussion of science and technology and Ethiopia cannot go far without taking into account what this is ultimately all about -- empowering people. And there is no empowerment more relevant and more effective than the passing of pertinent knowledge across to those who desperately need it.

Those of us who have the privilege of calling ourselves professionals in America or Europe have had countless resources spent on us to teach us English so that we can pick up knowledge in that language. Today, we do profit from it. In the grand scheme of things, we are no more intelligent nor our lives more valuable than our compatriots who have not had our good fortune. And beyond earning that paycheck, neither are we more likely to use our knowledge to directly change our lives. On the other hand, it is not inconceivable to think that a potential Einstein is herding his sheep in the hills of MoTa, or riding her camel to the Thursday market in Bati. The difference between us and them is that they do not get to hear or read about the wonderful world of science and its resultant marvels of technology in the same language they use to call their younger brother to play "dibibiqosh" or their aunt to partake of some "abol bunna".

Not only is an alien language a barrier to grasping useful knowledge, but in many ways it de-sensitizes the non-native speaker from the actual excitement and marvel of knowledge gained through science. I remember once explaining the tide to a relative, in Amharic. Her reaction? My little speech sounded so unbelievable that she thought I was making fun of her. But I cannot blame her…whoever heard of the moon pulling on the earth's waters? The notion that the moon is engaged in a fantastic tug of war with the earth for the planet's seas is really incredible. But, she could appreciate just how amazing the whole thing is when it was explained in terms of the things she can relate to in her day-to-day life. I can imagine the countless young and fertile imaginations that would be fired up if they were to hear the same thing.

Almost all of us reading this on-line magazine are college educated. Locked away in our brains is knowledge that is the result of hundreds of years' worth of scientific research and study. Just a tiny fraction of that knowledge can make such a difference if effectively transmitted to those who need it most!

As I said before, there are any number of dimensions to this issue. There may be those who will ask if I am recommending teaching college in local vernacular. Ask whether we have the resources to translate every college textbook into Amharic. Ask whether we can indeed agree on one language or more, etc. etc. Before I explain my particular corner of this issue, let me give you some perspective.

In this country, I have been an avid follower of popular science and technology publications and broadcast media presentations. I have worked as a volunteer in high school science and technology mentoring and competition programs. I have talked to countless average people, generally with non-technical jobs and careers, about their hobbies of rocketry, or gunsmithing, or software, or modifying their cars for racing. I have listened in astonishment to the story of a Michigan thirteen-year-old who actually went a long way towards creating a nuclear reactor in his backyard. (He got all his parts and radioactive materials from garbage. His whole shed became so radioactive that the government eventually confiscated the whole thing and buried it with the rest of the national nuclear waste in Nevada.)

The point to all this is that, for those who are interested, a vast amount of useful and comprehensible technical information is available at any age and comprehension level outside of the formal education system.

When it comes to language and technology, I am interested in two things. One is popularizing science and technology so that people do not have to go to college to know how they can improve their water wells or change their stoves so their wood lasts longer. A little work with those who spend their days pounding a lump of iron ore into a doma or maresha can transform them into small scale foundrymen -- melting and pouring iron instead of beating it into shape. There is a deep hunger out there for life-saving and immediately practical knowledge.

My other interest is in encouraging children's interest in science and technology. Children are the ones who dare to ask the simplest and yet most profound questions. Why is the sky red at sunset? Why does a pellet launched by a slingshot come back down to the ground? Why does water flow downhill instead of up? Science has an answer to all of these questions. Not only can science answer these questions, but the responses can lead to many more fantastic things. The optics of sunsets can lead into explaining the eyeglasses worn by Grandma. The rockets strapped to the space shuttle are just the latest manifestation of humanity's urge to throw things higher and farther so they do not come back like that pellet.

There will come a time when the vision of a child in Ambassel reading about and understanding gene splicing in an Amharic book or newspaper will come true. In the meantime, those of us who have the knowledge need to keep this issue in mind. The greatest contribution we can make is to share knowledge -- to pass it along and distribute it. Right now, we are "engulfato-ed". We are choking with knowledge, but since we are not seeding it into the air of the popular culture, the fire that would move us forward cannot ignite and, as a result, we are stuck and going nowhere.