The Old Chief, and His Give-Me Successor

When Ryan and I were about to leave, Bologedung, the Suri chief said: “You are my children. Take the information I am giving and tell others out in the world.”

We gave him highly prized razor blades, an Adobe Photoshop cap and 100 birr. Appropriate gifts.

After carefully looking at the black hat and razor blades, the chief thanked us. “I wish you a good trip.”

Immediately, Bologedung’s son, Bardagu, objected. He was the oldest son, the next-in-line chief. He also had been sent to Holland courtesy of a reality TV show, given 10,000 birr with which he bought cattle and a new Kalashnikov. Now he wanted money from us.

“We came to talk with the chief. Not his son.”

Heated discussion. Did the people of Holland ask you for money? “No. But that’s not relevant here.” Then Bardagu rudely rebuked his father’s words of contentment with us. There was absolutely no respect for the elder, father or chief.

Finally I threw the son 50 birr.
But when he sat into our Land Cruiser for an assumed ride into Kibish town, I swallowed hard and squeaked something like, “There is no room.” Fortunately it sounded tougher when Ermias translated.
The surprised wannabe chief stepped down. (And best of all, he didn’t shoot us with the new Kalashnikov.)

As the Cruiser bounced over the rocky road to our camp, I wondered about Bardagu’s oldest son. That would be the following future chief. What is the nine-year-old learning from his grandfather and father. I reflected on the Suri cultural recorder Daniel’s words: “The old chiefs were different. They talked directly to God. Today the elders need money or local beer.”