15

Return to the Accursed Mountain

‘There is no greater pain than to recall a happy time in wretchedness.’

Dante, Inferno

SEVEN MONTHS LATER I was back in Ethiopia. Tullu Wallel had haunted me ever since I’d left its accursed twin peaks. Although I’d tried to get on with new projects, resuming normal life was impossible. I had to complete the search. I knew that somewhere on the mountain’s slopes lay the answer to the riddle of King Solomon’s mines. As before, there was only one way to find out. I was going to have to return to Tullu Wallel.

Usually, there is nothing more pleasing than returning to a place where you have endured hardship. But as the plane taxied towards Addis Ababa’s airport terminal, I felt a lump in my throat. My toes curled up in my shoes, and my heart raced. I was mad to have come back and I knew it. The only certainty was that there would be much more hardship ahead before I flew home to Europe.

A familiar figure was waiting at the arrivals gate. He was dressed in some of my old clothes, his hair was cropped short, and he looked despondent. It was Samson. When our eyes met neither of us smiled. The journey ahead was about unfinished business. This was not a time for pleasantries. Samson took my bags and led the way to his taxi. He didn’t say whether he’d been surprised to get my message. In fact he didn’t say anything at all.

As the taxi neared my hotel, I muttered my first words.

‘I had to come back,’ I said.

‘The mountain?’ whispered Samson.

‘The mine-shafts, I can’t stop thinking about them. I know that I can find them.’

Samson ran the wheel through his hands before applying the brakes gently. The taxi glided to a halt.

‘Tullu Wallel will kill you,’ he said. ‘Take my advice. Go back to Europe and stop thinking about Solomon’s gold.’

The words echoed advice given to Hayter when he ventured back to Ethiopia to search once more for the mountain’s mineshafts. That was sixty-five years before my own journeys. On his death-bed, Hayter’s old companion ‘Black’ Martin whispered to him: ‘Leave Tullu Wallel and Abyssinian gold alone, or you will live to regret it, as I have done.’ Black Martin, who was afflicted by an Ethiopian curse, died a few days later.

Perhaps I should have taken the advice, but I didn’t. Instead I made a beeline for the accursed mountain, dragging Samson with me. I was struck with a strong case of déjà vu, for we tracked down Bahru and roped him and the Emperor’s Jeep in as well. Bahru’s luck had eventually returned and he had made his way back to Addis Ababa. We found him lying in a daze in the back of the Jeep, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth packed with qat.

The days that followed were far harsher than any other journey I have ever undertaken. We struggled through mud, sleet and torrential rain. The mules and muleteers battled on despite the dreadful conditions. Our clothes, blankets and supplies were drenched early on and never dried out. The skin on my feet began to rot away, and my shins felt as if they had been flayed with whips. Samson was in no better condition. His intestinal worms had returned with a vengeance.

My obsession with Frank Hayter’s mine-shafts was destroying not only me but those with me. Most journeys have a clear beginning, but on some the ending is less well-defined. The question is, at what point do you bite your lip and head for home?

On the last morning, after a truly wretched night, we sat crouched in the lee of a hardwood tree dreaming of being far from Tullu Wallel. Our spirits were broken. I took stock of the situation. The rain was coming down in sheets. Most of the food was gone and the batteries were dead. The kerosene was finished, and the last of the drinking water had been consumed. Samson was clutching his belly and moaning. I had fallen into an ants’ nest and my back was badly bitten. Being eaten alive by soldier ants is indescribably painful. The mules had started to buck whenever anyone went near them. The muleteers’ faces were drawn, the palms of their hands raw and bleeding. I wondered if things could get any worse, and at that moment the rain turned to hail. I knew then that my search for Hayter’s mine-shafts was at an end.

Taking a deep breath, I staggered to my feet and ordered the retreat. As we turned on our heels and began the long, miserable trek back towards the main road, I smiled wryly to myself. Frank Hayter’s secret was still safe, as was the exact whereabouts of King Solomon’s mines.