MY ESCAPE THIS MORNING was so easy that one could call it a release. At dawn yesterday’s escort returned to their compound, and for some reason my host appeared not to take faranj-protection very seriously. By seven o’clock Jock had been loaded and the chits given, with many admonitions, to a disgruntled, unarmed, puny youth, who looked quite scared at the idea of taking off into the wilds with a faranj; and, on realising that he alone was to accompany me, I felt already free.
Beyond the compound I firmly deprived my companion of Jock’s halter, set a fast pace up a high hill, increased the pace across a level two miles and, as the sun was getting hot, almost sprinted up another higher and steeper hill – at the top of which I paused, breathless and streaming sweat, to gaze sadistically back at my distant victim, now desperately signalling me to wait. When I began to slither quickly down the steep shale slope Jock looked at me reproachfully, seeming to ask if I had taken leave of my senses. However, the sure-footed highlanders can always beat me on such descents and soon my escort was waving the chits in my face, while indicating a compound some half-an-hour’s climb up the northern mountain. But for three hours we had seen no one and the youth was now thoroughly demoralised. Pointing ahead I repeated ‘Bicha!’ (‘Alone!’) several times, in a threatening voice. Then, to ease things for him when he had to confess his failure, I went into the chit business myself and inscribed a long message in my most flourishing hand on impressively-headed ship’s writing paper; and when he had accepted this I said goodbye and went full speed ahead towards the next hill. Once I glanced back, to see the poor lad sitting beneath an acacia tree, looking bewildered. I hope he wasn’t beaten on his return home.
It was blissful to be on my own again – alone in a region that looked more grandly wild and felt more utterly remote than anywhere else I have ever been. For the next two hours we ambled up and down the low grey hills that here run parallel to the Ataba ravine – which was close below, with its fast, shallow river running clear and green beneath a southern wall of fissured red rock. This area is so barren that until one o’clock I saw no tukuls and few traces of cultivation.
Then a small settlement appeared ahead, and three snarling dogs came racing down the steep slope. Shouting ‘Hid!’ I stoned them in the approved fashion, as their noise brought a few cautiously curious men to the edge of the settlement. Had we not been observed I would have passed by, preferring to avoid the locals until dusk, but now I decided to attempt some foraging for Jock. As we approached the nearest compound the women fled indoors and the men uneasily moved to a little distance before questioning me in Amharinya. I replied ‘Amharinya yellum’, indicating my tongue and shaking my head – and then I pointed to Jock and asked hopefully, ‘Buccolo injara?’ (Mule food?). At once the tension slackened, either because this request was so reassuringly normal, or because it was already obvious that however inexplicable my presence might be I hardly constituted a menace to the community. Two men stepped forward and led Jock into the compound, beckoning me to follow; and as he was being unloaded, and given an armful of un-nourishing straw, the women peered from their tukuls to ask if I were ‘set’ or ‘saw’. I replied ‘set,’ but everyone looked disbelieving; so a man ‘sexed’ me in the usual way – and when he had confirmed my femininity the women relaxed and shyly invited me into a tukul.
Within this tiny hut I sat near the door, on a mud bed, while men from all over the settlement came crowding round to stare. No talla was produced – evidence of extreme poverty – but two women immediately set about preparing a meal, first pointing to a mysterious substance hanging from the ceiling and enquiring if I approved of it. I was hungry enough to approve of anything chewable so I nodded enthusiastically and said ‘Thuru! Thuru!’ (Good!). The substance proved to be strips of dried beef – a precious delicacy – and when it had been chopped up and simmered with salt and cinnamon (two other delicacies) the tasty stew was served on a round of stale, inferior injara.
Meanwhile some men were questioning me about my route – one question that I can always answer, merely by reciting a list of names – while others were examining my body as though it belonged to a circus freak. My feet were picked up and my boots gazed at in wonder, my hair was felt and exclaimed over, the golden down on my tanned forearms was gently pulled to see if it was in fact growing there, my shirt was opened and the whiteness of my torso marvelled at, and my rather conspicuous calf-muscles were prodded respectfully – and then the men looked at me and laughed, while prodding them again and saying, ‘Addis Ababa – thuru!’ Which I took to mean that they considered the muscles well-suited to the journey.
This interlude reinforced my theory that in remote regions it is best to show a total dependence on the locals. Within fifteen minutes I had been accepted by that settlement – as a most puzzling phenomenon, it is true, but also as someone to be fed, and joked with on terms of essential equality. The particular kind of communication established there would have been impossible had I arrived protected by armed men flourishing chits. In this country, as elsewhere, the best currency for purchasing kindness is trust.
Yet in certain circumstances trust must be tempered with prudence. While I was eating the men had turned their attention to my kit, which was no less a source of wonder than my body. Every object not in the sacks was scrutinised eagerly, and I could see that some objects were being coveted. To possess so many marvellous things bespoke a wealth beyond imagining, and soon a group of men began to beg insistently for a comb (they had seen mine), for the heavy rubber torch (they mistook it for a weapon), for the bird book (its brilliant illustrations delighted them), for the bucket, the water-bottle, Jock’s rarely-used bridle and my map. It was not unpleasant begging, but wistful as a child pleading for the moon; their intelligence failed to tell them that most of these possessions were supremely important to me – and at present irreplaceable, even were I a millionaire. I had intended getting my gift-box out of its sack and distributing a few combs and mirrors among the family who had entertained me; but now I realised that it could be tempting these men unfairly – and possibly dangerously – to let them see how many enviable articles are contained in my sacks. So I left having given them nothing. In future I must remember always to carry a day’s supply of gifts in Jock’s bucket.
For three hours we continued west along the valley floor, seeing no one, though occasional patches of stubble proved that the lower slopes of the northern mountain wall are inhabited. By now my map has rather lost its grip. It is lavish with lines of little red dots, marking ‘tracks’ – one of which is alleged to accompany the Ataba up this valley – but any track there may be is invisible to the naked European eye. Not that this matters, for one has to go west, between these gigantic ranges, and the terrain is easy enough. All day no break appeared in the massive fortifications to the south; but there must be a break somewhere, and doubtless we’ll come to it eventually.
Soon after five o’clock a brief stretch of visible track led us down to river-level, and on the opposite bank ‘steps’ of high hills seemed to lead to the Semiens. Having crossed the Ataba (here a narrow stream) the track again vanished, but it was not too difficult to find a way up the forested hills and we climbed gradually – because diagonally – for the next forty minutes, rising to 8,400 feet. Here there were no signs of cultivation, so when we came to this natural terrace I decided to stop and unload Jock before dark. (How to re-load him tomorrow morning is tomorrow’s problem!) Very likely a settlement lies not far off – I think the next hill is ploughed – but it would be lunacy to attempt these forested, friable, tractless inclines by torchlight.
Now poor Jock is fending for himself; I can hear him munching nearby, so evidently he’s making the best of tough, scorched grass. His owner guiltily enjoyed an excellent supper – six ounces of tinned cheese with half a pound of raw prunes, eaten by brilliant starlight. Here the sky arches like some exotically decorated Emperor’s tent above all those square ambas, curving crests, triangular spires and jagged ridges that tonight form the boundaries of my world. Level with this ledge, on the other side of the valley, I can see a few little fires – companionable red dots in the darkness – and occasionally I hear the distant howling of dogs. At least I hope it is the howling of dogs, and not of hyenas; undoubtedly this is hyena country, which worries me slightly. Yet the lighting of a fire might attract human marauders, so instead I’ll tether Jock near me – a precaution that will restrict his grazing. Fortunately hypothetical hyenas cannot destroy my pleasure in this superbly beautiful ‘Night on the Bare Mountain’ – where the air feels like cool velvet and cicadas are serenading me from the valley and the still majesty of the mountains looms all around.
I slept deeply last night – with no hyena troubles, even in a nightmare – and woke just as morning ‘flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight’. It was 5.50, and for moments only a silver pallor hung in the east. Then quickly a faint pink flowed up from the hidden horizon – giving mountains and valley a new, soft, shadowed beauty – and soon this had deepened to a red-gold glow which seemed briefly to hold all the splendour of all the dawns that ever were. To lie beneath such a sky, surrounded by such peaks, brings an almost intolerably intense awareness of the duality of our nature. We belong so intimately and joyously and tragically to this physical world, and by its own laws we soon must leave it. Yet during these moments one knows, too, with humility and certainty, that each human spirit is immortal – for time cannot destroy whatever element within us reverences the glory of a dawn in the mountains.
While breakfasting off more cheese and prunes I considered our load problem, and finally improvised a variation on the pannier theme. This ingenuity boosted my self-esteem considerably, but only temporarily. If necessity is the mother of invention she proved a very bad mother in this case and after precisely thirty-five minutes the whole invention fell asunder. Luckily we were then within twenty minutes’ walk of a settlement, so tethering Jock beside the shambles I went for help – and succeeded in obtaining it, after a long, patience-sapping session with two men whose natural slow-wittedness was accentuated by astonishment and suspicion.
Jock has a chill today. Last evening he was in a lather when we stopped and, though I rubbed him down hard, it is clear that Nights on Bare Mountains don’t suit him as well as they do me. He has been in wretched form since morning – sneezing repeatedly, looking hard-done-by when going uphill and refusing to eat. So we took it easy all day and only covered twelve miles.
The landscape changed completely within two miles of our camp. Suddenly the valley broadened, the dark soil was extensively cultivated and many hillsides were covered in freshly green shrubs, through which scores of birds darted brightly. During the forenoon I counted six settlements and the people were unexpectedly friendly – several men pursued me to present raw eggs or gourds of fresh milk or curds. Then would follow a long delay, while I sat on a stone enjoying these refreshments and explaining where I was coming from and going to.
The local dogs, however, were far from friendly. These enormous curs are the most dangerous animals in Ethiopia and twice today they really scared me. Once a pair followed us for about a mile, slavering and snarling ferociously. They seemed impervious to stones and only retreated when I’d knocked one of them half-unconscious with my dula, to deter him from leaping at my arm. Then, an hour later, a pack of five surrounded us in a paroxysm of aggressive fury, but Jock reacted by lashing out intelligently at the three who were closing in behind us and then swinging around to aim at the others. It was the first time I’ve seen him kicking and the implications of a mule-kick were not lost on the curs. At once they retreated to a safe distance – from everybody’s point of view.
Today’s direction-finding was much more taxing than yesterday’s. The inhabited foothills were criss-crossed with many faint paths and it was impossible to determine which path might ultimately turn south. Then from one o’clock, when all the settlements had been left behind, we were crossing trackless hills (now arid again) by whatever route looked easiest. This morning I attempted to find out the approximate point at which one can enter the Semiens; but in answer to my careful sign questions everyone merely pointed to the colossal massif towering immediately above us and repeated ‘Semien! Semien!’, while going through a pantomime of being exhausted to the point of collapse – which was neither illuminating nor consoling. However, at three o’clock the head of the valley came in sight – another gigantic mountain wall, obscuring the western sky – and I decided to descend to river level, since the Ataba seemed likely to be my most reliable guide to the heights.
Half-an-hour later we were beside a deep pool of cold, green, ice-clean water, so Jock had a long rest while my filthy body was being scrubbed. Then we meandered along an intermittent path just above the river, often having to force our way through thick groves of aromatic shrubs. Here a few cow-pats and goat droppings appeared though no settlements were visible; but at six o’clock, as I was looking around for a camping-site, smoke rose ahead – and five minutes later I saw this shepherds’ camp, where three young men and three boys were preparing for their nightly vigil.
Having given everyone time to appreciate my harmlessness I invited myself to stay the night, feeling relieved that here were Jock-loaders. After a moment’s hesitation the men welcomed me, by pointing to a stone near the fire, and then came the already familiar process of investigation and acceptance – which here is being more protracted than usual, for in this confrontation with the unknown these shepherds are without the reassuring support of their community.
As I unloaded Jock and rubbed him down the herds were being rounded up – scores of goats, eighteen cattle, four donkeys and twenty-six kids. The kids give most trouble, for they have to be caught – much against their will – and then secured in quartets by means of leather thongs knotted around their kicking forelegs. The other stock, who have sense enough not to wander after dark, are simply driven on to the open space between the high-blazing fire and the cliff above the river. When the two cows had been milked into gourds the milk was shared with me and I was offered dabo and roasted barley, but as both were in short supply I feasted instead on tinned mackerel and raisins.
At present I’m not well-informed about world events, but I do know that some spacecraft is in orbit. I saw it rise above the northern mountains at 7.15 and it disappeared below the southern mountains ten minutes later. The shepherds saw it too, as it slowly traversed the sky – looking just like a small golden star, apart from its weirdly purposeful movement. Then they glanced at me uneasily, perhaps imagining some sinister link between the appearance of a faranj and this derangement in the heavens. I had wondered, as I watched it, if it were manned; and I also felt uneasy, thinking of the ominous contrast between the life of an astronaut and the life of my companions – which is now as it was when ‘there were … shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them …’
Last night my sleep was disturbed by armies of small black ants who seemed to relish insecticide. Also I was lying on an incline, with my feet braced against a boulder, and I tended to unbrace them every time I dozed off in defiance of the ants – which meant wakening abruptly to find myself sliding towards the fire.
However, I enjoyed being awake in that camp. The shepherds kept watch in pairs, a man and a boy always sitting by the fire, and as they sat they chanted an interminable monotone duet. Judging by the names mentioned this must have been a saga of all the bravest warriors of highland history; and the singers put such feeling into their voices that often I could guess which were the words of the victorious Emperor, or the conquered chieftain, or the scheming traitor. It was splendid to hear the ring of these proud, sharp phrases against the dark silence of the valley. For highlanders history is not of the past, seen down an orderly vista of dates and events: it lives within them, as inspiring memories of courageous or cunning individuals who may have lived – for all they know – a hundred or a thousand years ago.
As I lay listening smoke streamed past me, in a grey-blue horizontal column, laden with rosy sparks; and this movement of insubstantial loveliness was background to a motionless tangle of tall grasses – growing between me and the fire – which formed a design of such intricate delicacy that for hours I gazed up at it in endless delight. I felt grateful then for having been born in time to know this world of simplicity and peace, which may soon be annihilated by the Age of the Astronauts.
This morning Jock seemed quite recovered. Good grazing had been available all night and his performance today has proved that he took full advantage of it. At 6.15 we left the shepherds, who had been singularly unhelpful when questioned about our route. Whichever direction I pointed in, saying ‘Semien?’, they nodded vaguely and replied ‘Mado’ (Yonder). So I decided simply to follow the Ataba. But when we came to the head of the valley following the Ataba was no longer simple; at the junction of the three massifs lay a confusion of rocky, rushing rivers, sheer precipices and ancient forests of giant, creeper-hung trees. However, somewhere amidst this wilderness there had to be an upward path, and after struggling around in circles for some twenty minutes I noticed a narrow tunnel through the forest, on the far bank of one river. And that was it. From there a track climbed south up a cleft in that mountain-wall which for two days had been unbroken.
At first we were amidst the chill gloom of the forest, where many rotten trees have been caught as they fell by networks of tough creepers which now support the dead giants at strange angles. Then the path was overhung by green and gold shrubs, between which the emerald flashings of the river could be glimpsed far below. An unexpected descent took us down to river level, and having crossed to the eastern wall of the ravine we were again climbing steeply on an open, grassy slope where the path was of slithery earth. (On the west wall it had been rocky, and therefore easy to climb.)
By nine o’clock the sun was reaching into the ravine, yet the air was getting colder every moment – though this didn’t prevent Jock and me from lathering sweat. Half-an-hour later we at last reached level ground, and fifty yards ahead three men were threshing barley. They seemed mesmerised by our appearance, but when I had unloaded Jock and collapsed on a pile of straw they quickly recovered and shared their talla with me.
An uneven shoulder of the mountain formed this ledge (some three miles by two), where a few settlements – perched on hillsides amidst stubble fields – were overhung by rough grey crags rising from green forests. Now I really was in the Semiens, at 10,300 feet, and for the next hour I rested here, being revived by timid but generous locals who filled me with talla while I gazed joyfully at the heights and the depths all around me.
When Jock was being reloaded I had the ropes tied extra-tight – a regrettable but necessary precaution. Earlier the load had been slipping slightly and on the isolated heights ahead I dared not risk it falling off.
From this ledge the path climbed steeply for half-an-hour before levelling out in a cool green world of tall, aromatic shrubs. Then it curved around the mountain, overhanging an apparently bottomless abyss, and soon was climbing again to the 11,500-foot crest of a ridge of black soil. Here only a few clumps of heather grew between smooth boulders and it was so cold that I stopped sweating.
A short stretch of flat, bleak moorland brought us abruptly into a new world, where on every side the immense slopes, sweeping above and below the path for thousands of feet, were so thickly covered with golden grass that the very air seemed golden too. From here we climbed gradually, rounding one grassy spur after another, while to the east, south and west jagged rock summits rose far above us, severe against an intense blue sky. As we penetrated deeper and deeper into the mountains I realised that our track would have to go over one of those summits, improbable as that might seem, for there could be no other exit from this colossal amphitheatre.
I was scanning the various peaks, wondering which escarpment we were fated to tackle, when my eye was caught by a violent disturbance in the long grass on the next spur. At first I thought it must be a herd of alarmed goats – though this seemed unlikely – but an instant later shrieks and screams of an uncanny stridency shockingly ravaged the stillness. We were then rounding the spur – and I stopped, accusing myself of having an hallucination, for the slope ahead was apparently swarming with misshapen lions. It took me half a minute to realise my privilege. This was a herd of some two hundred Gelada (Bleeding Heart) baboons – one of the rarest of animals, which is found only in Ethiopia, and in Ethiopia only on the highest mountains. So my hallucination was understandable, for the magnificent male Gelada has a thick lionesque mane – a waist-length cape of dark fur – and to strengthen the illusion his tail is handsomely tufted.
Our presence was provoking hysterically raucous protests. The Geladas swarmed across the whole slope – above, below and on the path – and the nearest were hardly ten yards away, giving me a clear view of the heart-sized patch of crimson skin on each chest and of their long, powerful fangs gleaming in the sun at every shriek. In the circumstances, I could have done with a less clear view of these fangs. All baboons are reputed to be cowards but apparently Jock and I look unusually innocuous, for this troop was showing not the slightest inclination to move off the path. Then my memory perversely produced what is doubtless an old wives’ tale about human bones having been found among others in the Geladas’ boneyards. At which point I decided to take action – and a few stones immediately cleared the path, though none of the males moved far away and their hideous peals of rage almost deafened me as we slowly passed through the herd. Luckily Jock had maintained his customary stoicism during this encounter, merely looking relieved at having a chance to stand still.
On the next spur I paused to watch the Geladas’ antics. Their many human gestures have the chastening fascination of all monkey-behaviour and in their social life they seem to be aggressive and irritable and to expend a great deal of energy on squabbling, male with male and female with female. But this does nothing to distinguish them from their more advanced cousins – and anyway our intrusion may have upset everyone’s nervous system.
Soon after, we were on the western mountain, where our struggle began. Green forest covered the shadowed precipice, icy streams formed miniature waterfalls and whenever I stopped, to quieten my pounding heart, I began to shiver. From here it was impossible to see the summit – or indeed to see any distance ahead, through this dark tangle of trees – and poor Jock had to be urged on with vehement shouts, for which I had little breath to spare, and with occasional whacks across the hindquarters that almost reduced me to tears of remorse. Again the track had become elusive and sometimes we didn’t know which way to turn – though at least I realised that our general principle must be to move upwards, whereas Jock felt that whenever possible it would be much more rational to move across.
As the air thinned each step became a pain. Now Jock’s jumps from ledge to ledge would have taxed a steeplechaser, and often he had to clamber up long slabs of table-smooth rock that lay at dreadful angles, or to leap across deep, narrow gullies, or to keep his balance on inclines where every boulder shifted beneath his hoofs. But, oddly enough, he went ahead willingly at this stage, as though aware that I had become too exhausted either to shout or to whack, and that our climb was now a crisis in which he must not fail me. He was magnificent, yet here I found suspense on his account a far worse agony than aching muscles or lungs. To my inexperienced eye it seemed that at any moment he might break a leg, which would have been much more serious than my doing so; at an extremity he could carry me, but with the best will in the world I could not carry him. I was beginning to wonder which of us would collapse first when suddenly we were out of the trees, on a narrow ledge of yellowed turf – and looking up I saw the summit two hundred feet above. Inspired by this sight, I was about to take the lead – but apparently Jock had been inspired too, for he made an heroic final effort and got there first, to stand with head hanging and sides heaving. Poor fellow! – as I pulled myself on to the top I longed to be able to unload him.
However, on seeing what we had conquered I forgot everything else. We were now at 13,800 feet, and directly beneath the northern verge of this plateau lay a fierce, sombre scene of geological anarchy. One fancied that at the time of creation some basic law had here been forgotten – and nothing grew or moved amidst the grotesque desolation of these riven mountains. Then, looking north-east, I saw beneath me the countless strangely-eroded peaks and ridges that from the Ataba valley had looked so high; and beyond them I could recognise the mountains of Adua and Aksum, amongst scores of other ranges. In three directions I was gazing over hundreds of miles though crystal air – away and away to far, far horizons, where deserts and the sea are ‘as a moat defensive …’ No wonder I felt like a mini-Hillary, with all Northern Ethiopia lying at my feet.
While devouring a pound of dried apricots I sat on a sweep of burnt-gold, springy turf, where low bushes covered with daisy flowers grew between sheets of pale grey rock, and scores of two-foot giant lobelias looked incongruously like dwarf palms. Their long, shiny, pale green leaves glinted in the sun, making sparks of silver light all over the summit, and through the enormous silence came the faint, fairy-like chiming of the wind in those leaves. There is an overwhelming integrity about the silence of such places; in its purity and power it differs utterly from the noiselessness of even the remotest inhabited regions. This afternoon’s silence seemed no less tangible than the crags around us.
My proudly-conquered ‘summit’ is in fact the extreme edge of that immense Semien plateau which tilts gradually southward to the ridges above Gondar; so now we were able to walk effortlessly down an almost imperceptible incline. New crags rose nearby to the east, but ahead and to the west golden turf stretched illimitably, its flatness emphasised by a scattering of six-foot lobelias – like so many sentinels posted on the plain – and its only boundary the infinite arc of a cloudless sky. In the simplicity of its colours and contours this was a landscape of liberation; here one could indeed be ‘forgetful of the world’, since now nothing had meaning but the spaciousness, radiance and silence that briefly set one free from everything.
Half-an-hour later we were on broken moorland where bushes of giant heath had graceful streamers of wispy moss floating from their branches. Many of these bushes were dead, and here the instinct of self-preservation prompted me to remember the world and to consider the less romantic aspects of being on an uninhabited 13,000-foot plateau at 4 p.m. So I paused to collect firewood, fixing one bundle on top of Jock’s sacks and tying my own bundle with a spare length of rope. However, this tiring precaution proved unnecessary, as the next five miles were thinly wooded with heath, juniper and lobelia.
At 5.40 we seemed doomed to a night out – but then I saw goat droppings on the turf and a moment later I noticed that the upper slopes of a valley to the west had recently been ploughed. A brisk five-minute trot brought us to the edge of this deep, circular depression beneath sheer, smoky-blue mountains. Ripe barley lined the valley, creating a lake of golden light in the evening sun, and far below were three tiny settlements, each sheltered by a few blue-gums. Harvesting had begun on the slopes and as I stood there, luxuriating in relief, I could hear the distant whip-cracking and chanting of threshers who were driving muzzled oxen round and round through knee-high piles of barley.
The steep descent on loose clay was difficult for me, but Jock seemed pleased by the change. For him smooth, dry turf is very trying, and to my dismay those hoofs which had taken him so unerringly up that nightmare escarpment often slipped treacherously on our way across the plateau.
As we approached the main settlement three little boys excitedly yelled, ‘Faranj! Faranj’!, so I realised that here foreigners are not unknown. Yet the score of men who at once gathered silently around us were obviously suspicious – no doubt because I lacked an escort and had come from the ‘wrong’ direction. (Faranj trekkers usually hire mules at Debarak and enter the Semiens from the west.) However, after travelling hard for ten of the previous twelve hours I felt too tired and hungry to care about anyone’s reactions, so I quickly unloaded Jock, getting no assistance from the men, and sat in the stubble on a sack, signing my need for shelter. But this only increased the general uneasiness, since faranjs normally have tents, and without addressing me the men began a vehement discussion.
Ten minutes later a youngish man came striding across the field with a rifle over his shoulder and a truculent expression on his face. He wore western clothes beneath his shamma and immediately demanded my permit, by making a stamping gesture with his right fist on his left palm; but as he was illiterate my Ethiopian visa meant nothing to him. What he wanted was a familiar-looking chit, issued by some local governor, and there followed a few unpleasant moments while he shouted angrily at me and slapped my passport contemptuously. I could sense that he was unpopular with the other men and now some of them began to speak up for me, referring to the fact that I was a lone woman, and one of them invited me into his compound. Emboldened by this support I took back my despised passport and indicated to the company that the visa was Ras Mangasha’s chit – a deception which satisfied even the official, though in theory Ras Mangasha’s authority does not extend beyond the Takazze.
Once their initial suspicions have been allayed these highlanders are consistently hospitable and soon I was being given a place of honour near the fire in this tiny tukul. My altimeter shows 12,400 feet and within moments of the sun’s setting it began to freeze; at present my hands are so numb that I can hardly hold the pen. It seems odd that in Tigre, where the climate is comparatively equable, most dwellings are solidly built of stone, yet at this altitude one finds only wretched wattle hovels. Cakes of mud or dung are usually plastered over the stakes, but here I can see stars twinkling frostily in every direction and at intervals a blast of icy wind comes whistling through, making my candle gutter and sending wood-smoke swirling into everyone’s face. Such huts are common throughout Negro Africa, but with the example of Tigre so close their construction in the Semiens is extraordinary. Perhaps it is relevant that the Aksumite Empire – which introduced Semitic building techniques to the highlands – corresponded almost exactly to the modern Tigrinya-speaking regions and had as its southern boundary the Takazze Gorge. However, the Aksumite Empire flourished quite some time ago, and the failure of the Amharas to learn from their Tigrean cousins hints at an abnormal mental inflexibility.
For supper – after my host had devoutly said grace – crisp, hot barley bread was served with our injara and vegetable-wat; this bread contained so much foreign matter that I lost half a tooth while enthusiastically masticating. The Man of the House had wanted to kill a chicken for me, but as I could not permit such extreme generosity he presented me instead with four tiny eggs.
I notice a few slight differences in the customs of this household. For our hand-washings a wooden bowl of water was passed around – an apparently unnecessary economy in an area of many springs. Also, one empties one’s talla vessel before having it refilled, and at each refill a burning twig is held briefly over the gourd to allow drinkers beyond the firelight to see what quality of talla they are getting. But here, as elsewhere, the server always pours a little of the guest’s drink into her own hand and tastes it, to prove that the brew is not poisoned. Evidently it suits some highlanders to poison certain guests.
This is one of the filthiest hovels I have ever been in – which is saying quite a lot. Yet here filth never seems intolerable, as it might in a European slum. One finds no stale food, dirty clothes, scraps of paper, empty tins or unwashed utensils – only manure, wood-ash, leaves, straw and chicken-droppings on a never-swept floor, completed by the smell of humans who are no smellier that I am at present.
I enjoy this neolithic world where money is unimportant and all the objects in daily use have been made of mud, wood, stone, hides or horn. However, in one respect life may prove a trifle too neolithic tonight. Eight adults and three children live in this hut, which has a diameter of about eighteen feet, and as the twelfth inhabitant I’ll have to roll up like a hedgehog. In such a confined space my meagre kit seems to occupy an inordinate area, but when I suggested dumping it outside consternation ensued. So many people can live in one minute tukul only because they have no personal possessions, apart from their land, its products and their livestock. Every object here is communal – for storing and grinding grain, or for cooking and serving food. Despite the savage frost, there is not even any extra bedding; yet these people do suffer from the cold, which may be why they sleep in a crowd. I felt guilty about needing to sit near the fire, though wearing everything I’ve got, so after supper I moved away and wriggled into my flea-bag – a procedure which causes much astonished amusement in every compound.
This family is most endearing – generous, considerate, friendly and gay. Within a few hours they have made me feel that I belong to them, and in defiance of the language barrier we seem to have spent a lot of time laughing at each other’s jokes. I am learning that the quickest way to come to terms with the highlanders is by appealing to their sense of humour.
Two hours ago everyone else curled up in their threadbare shammas under their stiff cow-hides; but my sleeping prospects are so poor at this temperature that I’ve kept on writing, hoping that eventually extreme exhaustion will cancel out the cold – which, unhappily, does not affect the bed-bug population. Just inside the crude plank ‘door’ is a ‘two-tiered bunk’ type of bed which I haven’t seen elsewhere. It is made of wood and hide thongs, on the charpoy principle – but without anything approaching the skill of Indian craftsmanship – and as my torch-light caught it, when I was going out a moment ago, bed-bugs were swarming all over the wood. No wonder the occupants are muttering miserably in their cold-bedevilled, verminous sleep.
Now I think I’ll read a chapter or two of Pain and Providence.
After a few hours of shivery dozing it was a relief this morning to hear the harsh crow of a nearby cock. Everyone else must have felt the same, for my hostess was up in the dark, vigorously blowing on the embers – which had been covered with ash – and as the first light seeped through the wall the other adults rose and crouched around the blazing sticks, so closely wrapped in their shammas that only their eyes were visible and each voice was muffled. Many of the poorer highlanders never eat before midday and as no one seemed to be thinking of breakfast I opened a tin of tuna fish and ate it with my pale pink plastic spoon, watched by a fascinated family who accepted the empty tin as though it were a golden goblet. Everyone disapproved of my leaving so early – they shook their heads and rubbed their hands together while repeating ‘Birr! Birr!’ (‘Cold! Cold!’) But I reckoned that I would feel a lot less cold if moving and we started out at seven o’clock.
Strangely, none of these men was an efficient mule-loader, and this worried me as we walked down a sloping stubble-field that felt iron-hard under black frost. On being asked about the path to Derasghie my host had vaguely indicated the summit of a sheer mountain to the south-west and I had no idea how populated – or unpopulated – the route might be.
Our path – having skirted one end of a canyon that lies hidden at the edge of the valley – expired at the foot of a steep, newly-ploughed slope. So we simply went straight up, and even during this strenuous climb I was being seared by the frosty air. We paused on the crest, and looking back over the valley I noticed how few compounds there are in relation to the area of cultivated land and to the livestock population. Yesterday evening big herds of cattle, sheep and horses were grazing on all the stubble fields – here barley is cut half-way down the stalk – so, however primitive their homes may appear, the locals cannot be really poor. These fat-tailed sheep and small horses were almost the first of either species that I’ve seen in the highlands; sheep can survive in most regions, but are commonest at this altitude, and horses are nowhere as popular as mules, whose sure-footedness makes them much more valuable, both for riding and pack-carrying.
From this ridge the general view to the south-west was of a baffling array of seemingly unlinked escarpments and ledges. Directly below us lay a gorge of fearsome depth, overshadowed on three sides by perpendicular mountains of black rock on whose darkly forested lower slopes I could detect no sign of a track. Yet without a track it would be impossible to cross this formidable massif, so leaving Jock I began to quarter the ridge. Eventually a series of donkey hoof-prints leading south gave me hope – by following them we might find the track which I knew must exist somewhere. However, I’m no Red Indian, and as the hard, windswept ground had taken prints only between boulders, where the dust lay sheltered, we progressed hesitantly, climbing a shoulder of the southern mountain before turning north to descend a steep incline sparsely covered with withered grass. Then we came to the tree-line – and ten minutes later were on a wide, rocky path which was obviously the local M1.
For an hour we continued west, climbing gradually through a hushed, twilit forest of giant heath; eerily, most of the trees seemed dead, and all were elaborately draped in fine, pale green, ghostly moss. Immediately above us yard-long icicles hung in hundreds from the eternally-shadowed cliffs, like an armoury of glass daggers; and all the time it got colder as the path became rockier and steeper.
I no longer expect these highland tracks to stop climbing until they have reached the top of an escarpment – however much against nature such behaviour may seem. And sure enough, in due course our path took a deep breath, as it were, and soared straight up – providing a new danger for Jock, since thick black ice now lay between the stones. But the invincible creature made it somehow – bless his stout heart!
This final climb taxed my own body to the limit. Scanty sleep on two consecutive nights and a recently rather frugal diet – in relation to energy expended – have so diminished my stamina that I reached the top of the 14,400 foot escarpment feeling like death not warmed up. For a few moments I shared Jock’s disinterest in the panorama and simply sat beside him with my head on my knees. Then, having recovered enough breath to smoke, I began to appreciate a view that was more confined than yesterday’s but no less dramatic in its own way. This indeed was the heart of the Semiens – a jagged, dark, cold, cruel rock-world – and to have ‘won’ it was reward enough for any degree of painful fatigue.
Here the path vanished amidst lava slabs and when it reappeared, on a long turf slope, it had multiplied confusingly into half-a-dozen pathlets, which rambled off inconsequentially towards various points of the compass. A low, grassy ridge stretched nearby on our right, and on our left the plateau swept gradually up to a rough rock crest which I later discovered was the summit of Buahit (14,796 feet) – Ethiopia’s second highest mountain. At this point I had no notion whether the Derasghie track went south or east, but I emphatically favoured walking down rather than up. So we proceeded south.
It was now half-past eleven and the sun had some warmth, though a steady breeze was blowing coldly across this roof of Ethiopia. Jock’s load had come loose on the ascent and my desperate attempts to straighten the sacks and tighten the ropes had not been very successful. However, this worry was banished – temporarily – when two men appeared over the horizon, driving four donkeys in our direction. It took these knights a little time to overcome their incredulity but then they willingly rescued the distressed damsel – though their eagerness to help was more impressive than their skill at mule-loading.
Before saying goodbye I pointed south and enquired, ‘Derasghie?’ – whereupon one man caught my arm, nodded vehemently, jabbed the southward air and shouted ‘Derasghie! Derasghie! Thuru! Thuru!’ But the other man caught his arm and jabbed the eastward air, shouting, ‘Yellum! Yellum! Buzzy! Buzzy!’ (No! No! There! There!) From all of which I astutely deduced that both paths led to Derasghie, and that opinions differed as to the better route for a lone female with a mule; but since it was not possible to discuss the relative merits of the two paths I decided to continue lazily downhill.
Fifteen minutes later I was astounded to hear myself being hailed in English by an Ethiopian on the far bank of a nearby stream; and I was even more astounded to see a tall young white man crossing the stream and to hear him greeting me with a strong Welsh accent. I stared at him as though he were a spectre – and indeed the poor boy looked alarmingly like one, for he had spent the night lost on the slopes of Buahit. When we were joined by a haggard young Englishman, I learned from the boys’ guide-cum-interpreter, Afeworq, that I had come upon the last scene of a painful drama, which mercifully was having a happy ending. Yesterday Ian and Richard had left their camp, near Ras Dashan, to explore the Buahit area, and during the afternoon they somehow got separated and thoroughly lost, so both had spent the night wandering around alone without light, food or adequate clothing. Early this morning Afeworq left the camp to search for them, and just before I appeared the three had been reunited.
Ian, the Welshman, explained that two other Englishmen were at the camp and that all four are Addis schoolteachers on a ten-day Semien trek. He added that tomorrow he hoped to climb Ras Dashan (15,158 feet), Ethiopia’s highest mountain, and at this a certain fanatic gleam must have shown in my eye, for he asked if I would care to accompany him. Inevitably I said, ‘Yes, please!’ – forgetting both Derasghie and my dilapidation at the thought of a ‘highest mountain’.
It took us five hours to walk the next eight miles. Richard was suffering from mountain-sickness and no one had much spring in their step as we climbed the long slope to the top of Buahit. From the summit we could see a tremendous chasm to the north, half-full of colossal wedges of broken rock – but my attention was soon diverted to the practical aspects of this landscape. Here we were on the verge of a 300-foot cliff which I wouldn’t have dared to attempt with a pack-animal had I been alone, but as Afeworq knew a possible zig-zag route he led Jock down.
At the foot of this escarpment the load came off, having been loosened by Jock’s gallant jumping. Afeworq tried to cope – but he is a Gondar-born youth, who knows no more than I do about mule-loading. He then nobly offered to carry one sack on his head, and I carried the other over my shoulder, and thus encumbered we struggled on down steep paths of loose soil on which I frequently fell, being unable to keep my balance beneath the weight of the swaying sack. Richard was now almost collapsing and seemed unaware of our crisis, but Ian soon began to suffer from frustrated gentlemanly instincts – which had to remain frustrated, as he was clearly in no condition to assume the White Woman’s Burden.
We must have looked a pathetic sight as we staggered towards the camp, where Alan and Mike welcomed us with hot tinned soup and Ryvita.
This is a high-powered expedition, equipped with an enormous tent, a Primus stove, cooking utensils, crockery and cutlery, boxes of faranj food, a riding-mule, a muleteer and three pack-horses. Here we are down to 12,400 feet, in a wide, turf-lined hollow with running water nearby and a neighbouring settlement from which men come to exchange fresh eggs for empty tins.
Now early to bed, in preparation for Ras Dashan.
A long sleep in a warm tent is good medicine. At seven o’clock this morning everyone looked ten years younger and half-an-hour later we set off – leaving behind Alan, Afeworq and the pack-animals.
Descending to river-level we followed the stream for about a mile, before climbing for two hours through stubble-fields and ploughland, where the boys took it in turn to ride their mule. This region seems to be thickly populated and we passed several groups of surly-looking locals.
At 10.30 a short, steep climb brought us to a wide pass from which Ras Dashan was visible. It is a most unassuming mountain – merely a long ridge of rock on which one point is slightly higher than the rest – and without a guide one could never pick it out from amongst the many other mountains that here sprawl gloriously against the sky.
Now Richard’s mountain-sickness reasserted itself, so he reluctantly decided to return to camp. Mike was also looking ill, but he doggedly tackled the next lap – a long walk around spur after spur, across sunny slopes of golden turf dotted with two-foot lobelias. (The higher the altitude the lower the lobelia.) Between these level stretches there were a few muscle and lung-straining climbs and by midday thirst was tormenting me, though the boys seemed immune to altitude dehydration. Foolishly, I had left my water-bottle in camp, not realising that above river-level all streams would be frozen. (They were a very beautiful sight – gleaming tongues of ice hanging from the mouths of dark caverns near the summit of every mountain.)
By one o’clock an exhausting climb had taken us on to the Ras Dashan plateau, where the path skirts the western flank of the summit ridge and swings around to run parallel with the ridge on its southern side, across a wide, bleak plain littered with chunks of rough volcanic rocks.
Half-an-hour later the mule was tethered to a stone and we were led off the track towards the established route to the summit. The incline was easy, yet at this height our clamberings over rock-slabs and massive boulders felt strenuous enough, and we spent twenty minutes covering that last half-mile. Then a real climb of some fifty feet took us to the highest point in Ethiopia – and five minutes after Ian and the muleteer I crawled on to the summit, feeling very like a fly that has just been sprayed with DDT.
Our moment of triumph was somewhat marred by Mike’s disappearance. I had assumed that he was just behind me, but in fact he had vanished, and our shouts and whistles brought no reply. Then, concluding that he had simply stopped to rest, and would soon catch us up, we settled down to eat dabo, dates, nuts and raisins, while surveying the magnificence that lay below us.
Twenty minutes later, when we had decided that Mike must have turned back, Ian suddenly glimpsed him in the distance, wandering away both from us and the mule. No one in a normal state could possibly go astray on that plain, with Ras Dashan to guide them, and as we scrambled down from the summit Mike’s gait changed to a wavering stumble – so while Ian went straight to him the muleteer hurried to his animal and was soon riding recklessly towards the ‘patient’. I continued south-west to the pass – unable to repress a selfish joy at being briefly alone with Ras Dashan – and half-an-hour later Mike appeared over the horizon, looking like a highland chieftain with his two attendants trotting beside him.
As we lost height Mike recovered rapidly, and told us that while wandering on the plain he had ‘seen things’ and heard voices calling from the wrong direction. I hadn’t known that these classic symptoms of mountain-sickness could develop at such a comparatively low altitude.
We got back here soon after dark, fell upon the lavish stew which Alan had ready for us and then sat around the fire talking books. One appreciates the occasional contact with one’s own civilisation, and this particular contact is to be maintained for another day, because tomorrow my route to Derasghie will also be the boys’ route to Debarak.
The business of camping makes life very complicated. If I get up at 6.30 I can be on the track half-an-hour later, but though we all got up at 6.30 this morning it was 9.45 by the time the boys had cooked a hot breakfast, packed their equipment, dismantled their tent, washed themselves in the river and supervised the loading of their pack-animals. I should have thought that one treks in the Semiens partly to get away from complications, and it seems rather peculiar deliberately to bring them with one. But then my way of travelling seems something worse than peculiar to the boys, so no doubt it’s all a matter of taste, as the lion said to the antelope.
We climbed for three hours, to cross Buahit again at a point slightly lower than our route of two days ago. This track is a ‘main road’ and our fellow-travellers warned us about the presence of shifta on the route to Derasghie. Consequently Afeworq has been trying to persuade me to by-pass Derasghie and come to Debarak instead.
From the pass we descended gradually for seven miles, across springy turf, between frequent outcrops of rock and low hills covered with stunted shrubs – and always the lobelia were standing rigid against the sky.
Before finding this site, in a stubble-field near a settlement, we were walking through flat brown ploughland that stretched away to the horizon on every side. Above 12,000 feet barley is the only crop that does well and the locals bring their surplus grain to the markets at Debarak and Derasghie, to exchange it for teff, rye and wheat.
The Semien shepherd boys wear brown and white sheepskin capes and round, high sheepskin or woollen caps – the first variation in dress I’ve seen in the highlands.
Fuel is scarce here. On arrival we bartered empty tins for lobelia trunks, which burn badly, and for dried dung, which cooks food slowly. This site is without any shelter and at dusk the icy wind rose to gale-force; but nearby is a circular, stone-walled cattle enclosure and the kindly locals have said that our animals may use it too.
From here we are overlooking a deep valley, beyond which another long ‘twin’ ridge slopes gradually down from the heights, and Afeworq has indicated that my path to Derasghie runs west for a few miles along the flank of this ridge, before turning south-east.
During supper the boys and I argued amiably about travel. They said that they couldn’t understand anyone voluntarily living a tukul-life – and I said that I couldn’t understand anyone trekking through a country in splendid isolation from the humans who inhabit it. One has no opportunity to establish normal relations with the locals when living in a strange little tent-world of portable mod cons, where the faranjs converse in their own language while the ‘natives’ stare from a distance, being ‘observed’ with detachment and resented if they come too close. Travelling in a group has been an interesting experience, but it is not one that I would wish to extend or repeat, grateful as I am for the boys’ very generous hospitality.