The only option was to investigate every historical site contemporaneous with Eusebius. But there were dozens to choose from: it looked like folly.
“What about this Lalibela place?” said Jake. The guidebook pictured churches carved by hand from the red rock. “It’s a world heritage site, and the Ethiopians believe it was created by angels.”
Florence wrinkled her nose. “Look, it dates from the twelfth century AD. Much too young.”
Their food arrived, a spicy lamb stew served on a sour injera pancake. It was delicious and they used strips of injera to claw up the meat.
“The grog’s pretty special too,” said Jake. The national drink was tej, a honey wine served in glasses shaped like laboratory flasks.
A Dutchman at the next table overheard him. “What are you drinking that crap for?” He was tanned and thick-necked, with greying ringlets greased back over his head.
“Each to their own, I suppose. You two here to work?”
Jake and Florence exchanged looks.
“Holiday,” she said.
Their companion sneered. “Holiday? Why would anyone come to a dump like this for a holiday? Ach, I suppose the natives are sweet enough in a sort of childlike way. But their attempts at running a country are laughable, no?”
Jake’s jaw clenched involuntarily. If this narrative continued he might say something he would regret.
“I like this country,” he countered. “It defies expectation. If you believed what you read in the papers it would be some flyblown hellhole.”
“Oh, Ethiopia has lots of bits like that,” said the man. “Take it from me. But it’s all so unnecessary – they just don’t make the best of what they’ve got here. I’m a consultant, and working with these people I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
Jake turned his back on the drinker.
“For sure, man,” said their companion, riled now, spoiling for an argument. “I see lots of dancing and praying, but I don’t see any actual schools being built. They’re batshit mental, that’s the problem – even the smart ones. Did you know for example that every Ethiopian believes the Ark of the Covenant is kept in this country?”
Jake turned to face him again.
“That’s right.” The Dutchman snorted with laughter. “They think King Solomon sent it here to the Queen of Sheba, of all people.” He finished his beer and clicked his fingers at the waiter.
Florence had stopped picking at her food. “Where is it kept?”
“Some place called Axum, up in the far north. It’s a nice fairytale I suppose. But there’s a catch. Only one person alive has actually seen the Ark – this ancient monk guy who’s the guardian. Every other Ethiopian has to take it on blind faith.” He laughed again. “And there’s another problem with the story. This Axum place was built in the fourth century AD. But King Solomon lived, I dunno, a thousand years before that. Just think of it – all these Ethiopians worshipping some secret trophy which cannot possibly be the real thing.” He gave up on the waiter. “Ah, forget it, they just lost a sale. Adios my friends. Happy travelling.”
Florence and Jake met each other’s eyes. Neither spoke; their food cooled slowly.
Eventually the reporter raised a glass. “I think that’s what they call a break, old girl.”
But even in that moment of euphoria the sadness of the country was bought home to them. Three barefooted children were eyeing up the food from a polite distance and Jake gestured to the unfinished pancake.
That was all it took.
Bang! The youngsters pounced with the fury of a great white, gobbling up the sustenance in fistfuls, each child afraid to slow down in case the others got an extra morsel. In seconds the feeding frenzy was over. The eldest snatched the last shred of injera, stuffing it into his mouth and gloating at the spasm of consumption, eyes like egg whites. Without a word they sprinted away. The display reminded Jake just where he was in the world; there was a lump in his throat.
“That was intense,” he managed.
Florence rolled her eyes. “Disgusting behaviour,” she said.
Jake didn’t know how much longer he could put up with her.