HERE EVERYONE SAYS briskly that of course Jock must now be sold and another mule bought; but such insensitive talk of buying and selling outrages me. As events have proved, Jock is no ordinary pack-animal, and to part from him would blight the rest of my journey. The experts admit that his only complaint is malnutrition, so I have decided simply to give him a week’s well-fed rest and to reduce his future load by abandoning the Italian saddle and sending my books to Addis.
Today I left the hotel compound only briefly, to lunch with the Governor at his nearby home. Much of my time was spent fidgeting around Jock, supervising his feeding, and between fidgets I lay reading on my bed, cosseting my divers diseases. The dysentery attack seems to have been successfully repelled by sulphaguanidine: but Jock isn’t the only one who needs a week’s rest.
Once upon a time Lalibela – then known as Roha – was the capital of the Zagwe dynasty, whose Hamitic Agow Kings replaced the Solomonic line for some three hundred years, from about 920. These kings are now officially if illogically regarded as usurpers, by way of upholding that Solomonic legend which gives such moral support to the present dynasty. However, they were Christian Agow, and one of them – Lalibela – is a saint of the Ethiopian Church. According to a manuscript now in the British Museum he was the last but one of his line, and between 1182 and 1220 (Ethiopian calendar) he sponsored the construction of ten of Lalibela’s famed rock churches. The eleventh is said to have been built by his widow, as his memorial.
These churches have been sculpted out of living rock and they are among the few renowned ‘wonders of the world’ which, when seen at last, gave me a shock of joy. Tradition says that for their construction King Lalibela employed four or five hundred skilled workers from Jerusalem and Alexandria, as well as innumerable locals; and in the sixteenth century Francisco Alvarez, the Portuguese traveller, was told by monks at Lalibela that the eleven churches had been completed within twenty-four years. Soon after their completion an Ethiopian scribe wrote: ‘What tongue is capable of giving a description of them? He who beholds them will never be able to gaze his fill; his marvelling is so great that his heart is never tired of admiring them.’ I quite agree, and am glad that we are taking our rest-cure here.
Much as I am enjoying Lalibela’s churches, the atmosphere of the town depresses me. Until three years ago this was a remote mountain village, visited only by a few faranjs and by highlanders on pilgrimages to King Lalibela’s tomb. Now Ethiopian Airlines provide a link with Addis six days a week, the Seven Olives Hotel provides a reasonable imitation of Home Comforts, the local children form a corps of professional beggars and the taint of greed lies heavy on the air.
The hotel is owned by Princess Ruth, a younger sister of Leilt Aida and reputedly the Emperor’s favourite grandchild. Since it was opened two and a half years ago it has been managed by an American ex-missionary who sports pious texts on the rear windows of his Land-Rover and took twenty-four hours to realise that I am not Mr Murphy. (He still wriggles all over with apologetic embarrassment every time we meet, though I have repeatedly assured him that his error is in the best highland tradition.) The charge for a single room in the main building is 42/–, and I’m paying 18/– for a cell (in the annexe) which is furnished only with twin beds and has a low tin roof, mud walls, a stone floor and a tiny unglazed window – anywhere else in this country a similar room would cost 3/–. However, the profits are spent on the drought victims of Lasta and during recent years the regional ills would have been even worse but for the Seven Olives Hotel.
Yesterday the kindly District Governor was flying to Addis at noon, and he took an SOS from me to Lady Bromley. I am against the transferring of travellers’ worries to Embassy shoulders, but the present crisis seemed to excuse my appealing for a sun-hat, water-pills and Biros, to be put on a plane to Lalibela one day this week. Then, at 11.30 a.m. today, I received a large canvas Britannic Majesty bag, solemnly sealed, and containing not only the essentials I had requested but two tin-openers, a compass, a pair of sunglasses and a fat wad of mail. This generous efficiency filled me with awed gratitude. The Governor had gone straight from the airport to the Embassy and delivered my letter into the very hands of Lady Bromley, who had gone straight to the shops, filled the bag and sent it post haste to the airport. May St Lalibela bless them both!
Lalibela’s houses look unusually attractive; many are circular, two-storied, stone buildings, with thatched roofs – I have seen nothing similar elsewhere. Priests and their families form the greater part of the population and, like most highlanders, these people are much less dour than they seem on first acquaintance. During my rambles today I was twice invited into tej-beits for drinks on the house (Lalibela tej is exceptionally good), and one group of old Agow women asked me to stop and eat roast corn with them, as they sat in the sun outside their tukul. After our conspicuous arrival here everyone has made enquiries about us, so I am basking now in Special Treatment. Even the hotel waiters give me double rations at each meal, on the grounds that walkers need more food than fliers.
This evening Jock is noticeably plumper and the small girth sore on his belly has healed completely. My own state is also satisfactory. The knee injury has responded well to lack of ill-treatment and the chest pain has gone; but I am being persecuted by a peculiar cough which keeps me awake and seems immune to antibiotics.
Today my medical state was far from satisfactory; the sulphaguanidine has given up fighting whatever exotic bacteria I now contain and I have been almost annihilated by a blitz of dysentery. This evening I feel kittenishly weak, and can no more imagine myself walking to Addis on my feet than on my hands; but with luck I’ll revive as suddenly as I collapsed. Meanwhile I lie on a comfortable bed, counting my blessings between excursions to the loo. It was exceedingly benevolent of my Guardian Angel to preserve me from this onslaught until I had arrived here.
I woke this morning feeling much better belly-wise, but as my cough was worse I walked slowly down to the new Health Centre after a prudent breakfast of anaemic tea. The Medical Officer impressed me by his intelligence and dedication; probably Princess Ruth hand-picked him for this post. He is not a doctor, but simply a sincerely concerned young man with a stethoscope around his neck and lots of common sense in his head – the ideal type to achieve maximum results with the minimum of fuss.
When he had written out a prescription for me I took it to another room – stepping over dozens of groaning patients – where an equally impressive Addistrained nurse poured thick chalky liquid out of a ‘Grant’s Whisky’ bottle into a smaller bottle, and wrapped a fistful of tablets in a scrap of Amharic-printed newspaper. She told me to take the medicine four times a day and eight tablets a day for a week. No one would commit themselves to naming either remedy, but I paid my 4/– and bore them away, hoping for the best. The tablets were obviously of the sulpha group, the medicine could have been anything. I was astonished when my cough dwindled after the first dose and almost stopped after the second.
I had planned to trek tomorrow to Imrahanna Kristos – a church built in a cave on the western slopes of Abuna Josef – where I intended spending a night. Before my visit to the medicine man it had seemed that this expedition would have to be forgotten, but by noon I felt so restored that I set out to climb to a church near the summit of the mountain directly above Lalibela, and I got there – so now the trek to Imrahanna Kristos is on again. Granted I turned back at the church without reaching the summit, which signifies a weakened condition; but if I proceed tomorrow at a sedate, convalescent pace all should be well.
All is well, to the extent that I have got here, though today’s walk was a singularly unsuitable excursion for convalescents. Otherwise all is far from well, and this evening I am in a very bad temper.
As a concession to my semi-invalidism I decided to bring a porter-boy with me and last evening Giorgis, a charming fourteen-year-old, came to my room and said that he had been sent by Mrs Dettenberg, a German artist who is Lalibela’s only foreign resident – apart from the hotel-manager – and who has been a good friend to me during this past week. Giorgis is the son of a priest and is himself a deacon. He looks pitiably undersized and being a pupil of the Church school he speaks no English, but he is an unspoiled child with a sudden smile that wonderfully lights up his small brown face.
We set off at eight o’clock, collecting on the way a letter from the Governor’s office requesting the priests here to ‘grant me every assistance’. After a spectacular plunge into a wide, dusty valley we climbed on to one of Abuna Josef’s powerful 9,000-foot shoulders, from where I was again overlooking the land of our travail between Lalibela and Debre Zeit, whose plateau was now a long, clean-cut, cobalt chunk on the far horizon. I well remembered first seeing this landscape – and Abuna Josef – from the edge of that chunk.
It felt good to be back on the uplands, breathing keen air and seeing the world through that pure light of the heights which adds splendour to every colour. This well-watered plateau is strewn with colossal granite boulders and herds of horses and mules keep the fresh pastures so close-cropped that they look like well-tended lawns. Around them lie acres of brown ploughland and golden stubble-fields, all dotted with tiny settlements; and directly above, to the east, rises a further craggy 4,000 feet of Abuna Josef.
At midday the path again climbed steeply, taking us about a thousand feet higher across the face of a rock escarpment. Then another easy walk – over still greener pastures, where the wind was cold – ended dramatically on the edge of the plateau and at my feet lay a vast, fierce turmoil of mountains and valleys.
A difficult path led us down from ledge to ledge along Abuna Josef’s mighty flanks. Eventually we came to the remains of an ancient forest and walked to the foot of the mountain through a cool gloom beneath huge, deformed conifers.
Imrahanna Kristos appears unexpectedly when the path plunges into the narrow, shadowed head of a valley, from which high mountains rise steeply on three sides. Under the centre mountain is a deep cave, and within this cave stands the church. I first glimpsed it from above, while scrambling down the last rocky thirty yards, but a six-foot wall guards the cave’s wide mouth and only the roof is visible from the level space outside the enclosure.
Here I sat down heavily on a boulder. Nearby stood the priests’ residence – a two-storied, circular stone hut – and within moments we were surrounded by three priests and sundry deacons. Respectfully I dragged myself to my feet, bowed and handed the Governor’s chit to the senior priest, but without even glancing at this official introduction the ordained trio aggressively demanded a down payment of five dollars. They sounded more like shifta than clergy and I promptly lost my temper and snapped, ‘Cents yellum!’ – though I had brought five dollars as a parting donation. In such an impoverished area insistent begging from ‘rich’ faranjs is understandable, but there was no excuse for this truculence.
Then I decided to compromise by offering one dollar – and immediately all three closed around me, gesturing towards the path and yelling ‘Hid! Lalibela! Hid! Lalibela!’ Possibly this was an attempt to cow me; they may have assumed that I would be afraid to spend a night on the mountain. I was about to leave, in a fury, when a tall youth stepped forward from among the debtaras. He spoke a few words of English – with which he tried to soothe me, before turning to the priests and suggesting that they read the Governor’s chit. Apparently none of them was sufficiently literate for this, so he himself laboriously read it aloud; but the voice of officialdom made no impression.
Meanwhile I had been retrieving my temper. I explained that if the clergy would show a minimum of civility, and unlock the church, I would make a suitable donation on departure; but they obstinately repeated that they wouldn’t open even the enclosure door for less than five dollars. Whereupon I beckoned to poor Giorgis – who had been cowering behind a boulder – and started back up the path. Forgetting my tiredness in my rage, I moved fast – but was checked by shouts from below, offering to open the enclosure for E. $1.50. I was tempted to ignore this haggling, yet I did want to see Imrahanna Kristos. So I returned, handed over the ‘reduced fee’ and was admitted to the cave, with a promise that I would be shown the interior of the building tomorrow morning.
This 800-year old church has horizontal bands of whitish plaster and black wood which, seen through muted cave-light, surprisingly recall medieval England. The building is only forty-two feet long and its sanctuary is roofed by a low dome, not unlike a Buddhist stupa. It was built by a priest-king, Imrahann Kristos, who reigned from about 1110–1150 and of whom it was written in an ancient manuscript (seen here in the 1520s by Francisco Alvarez) that ‘during the whole life of this King he had not taken dues from his vassals, and that if anyone brought them to him he ordered them to be distributed among the poor’. It seems that these royal ideals have ceased to inspire the local clergy. Walking around the church, past the tombs of the king and his saintly daughter, I noticed another link with Buddhism in the swastika design which decorates some of the very beautiful carved wood and pierced stone windows. And suddenly, in this remote shrine of fossilised sanctity, the moribund religion of modern Ethiopia seemed intensely tragic.
At the back of the cave, which is roughly half-moon shaped, lies a mysterious mound of scores of disintegrating mummies. Clambering over them through the gloom I found myself breaking a child’s ribs – and its left arm and hand were a few feet away. This embalming effort was so unsuccessful that there are many more skeletons than mummies – though most of them are still partly enclosed in ‘shrouds’ of wickerwork, tied with string, which seems to indicate that they are not very old. No one has any definite information about their origin. The most plausible theory is that they are the remains of a pilgrim group who died here during some epidemic, but it is not clear why they should have been embalmed and deposited in such a sacred spot, instead of being buried like anyone else – unless perhaps they were particularly distinguished pilgrims, whose corpses deserved this special honour.
When I left the cave one of the younger priests informed me that I could eat and sleep in his tukul on payment of E. $2. I replied acidly that I was in no need of hospitality, gave him E. $1 for Giorgis’ board and lodging and retired to this ledge below the settlement – where I’m overlooking a long, wild valley, now softly filling with dusk.
It is unfortunate that so many tourists get their only impression of the highland peasantry from meeting priests at such places as Aksum, Gondar and Lalibela. Donald Levine has remarked with restraint that ‘though there are devout and kindly men among them, the Ethiopian priests have never been particularly noted for their moral qualities’. Exercising less restraint, I would add that the highland priesthood seems to attract the worst type of highlander – or rather to breed him, since the priesthood is mainly hereditary.
It is interesting that the clergy here treated the Governor’s chit with such contempt. During the past thirty years Haile Selassie has been gradually reducing clerical power in the interests of progress, but evidently his reforms have not yet penetrated to Imrahanna Kristos. On this issue the Italian occupation helped the Emperor, for many traitorous priests lost the respect of their flocks and two bishops publicly supported the enemy – one so forcefully that he forbade Christian burial for Patriot fighters. But Haile Selassie’s greatest victory, in his subtle anti-clerical campaign, has been the cutting of the umbilical cord between the Ethiopian Church and the Alexandrian Patriarchate. This victory has flatteringly raised the status of Ethiopia’s own church dignitaries; but it has also given the Emperor complete power over the clergy, who previously – under their Egyptian Abuna – wielded an authority independent of the state.
It was dark when I woke this morning, yet the priests were already celebrating the Eucharist. I lay warmly in my flea-bag, gazing up at a starry highway running between black mountain massifs and listening to that antique, solemnly beautiful chanting, which has been so strangely preserved amidst the decay of church buildings, doctrines and morals. Ten minutes later day came – at first faintly, to the crests high above, then with a quick flood of light that poured gold into the valley.
At 6.30 we entered the cave but to my indignant surprise I was again refused admission to the church, by a group of sullen debtaras who were obviously acting on orders from the priests. I waited until the service was over but the priests didn’t leave the church immediately, as is usual. Then the debtaras rudely pushed Giorgis and me towards the enclosure gate, pointing up the Lalibela path and looking ‘Hid!’ without actually saying it. Poor Giorgis had been in a state of mingled fear and embarrassment ever since we arrived yesterday, and now he indicated that it would be best for us to go. So we went, with my main objective unachieved.
I suspect these priests of having recently illegally sold some church treasures to a faranj. This trade has become fairly common and in an effort to curb it the Government is aided by reputable foreign experts who, on visiting a church, take an inventory of all its treasures. It is a pity that I am not recognisable as probably the greatest non-expert on church treasures ever to visit Imrahanna Kristos.
I felt so much fitter today that I was only half-tired when we arrived here at three o’clock; and Jock looks quite rejuvenated, so off we go in the morning.
Today we were following the jeep-track (my guide book elegantly terms it a ‘provisory road’) that links Lalibela with the Asmara–Dessie–Addis motor road. About once a month a vehicle uses this track (the 130-mile journey takes ten or eleven hours) and it seems miraculous that even a jeep can cope. Last week a WHO Malaria Eradication team left Lalibela and today the tyre marks were still discernible – luckily, since I was often dependent on them to guide me over stretches where nothing else indicated that here lay a track.
From Lalibela we descended to a wide, hot, arid valley and during the next two hours I found myself becoming depressed by my surroundings, for the first time in these highlands. This valley is still inhabited and we passed several settlements, two small herds of emaciated cattle, and a few neglected, unploughed fields from which the last thin teff crop has long since been harvested. Yet I saw not even one shepherd-boy, and as we walked between endless low, grey-brown hills, disfigured with dead scrub, the whole sun-plagued scene reeked of misery. The junipers, which somehow contrive to look freshly green everywhere else, were withered here and even the cacti hung limply. One felt that the remaining population had accepted the nearness of death and were sitting dully in their tukuls, not trying any more. Deserted, uninhabited landscapes delight me but the memory of that still, suffering valley will haunt me for a long time to come.
A gradual two-hour climb took us to a higher valley – long, broad, well-cultivated and walled by tremendous chunky ranges. I paused at the rectangular rock church of Geneta Mariam, which has an unexpected, magnificent colonnade under a sloping roof; but no keeper-of-the-keys was to be found in the nearby settlement.
During the afternoon the steady breeze became a strong wind, which by six o’clock had risen to gale force and blackly clouded the sky. We arrived at this little town half-an-hour after sunset and when I saw a young man in a Western suit standing at the lamp-lit doorway of a shack I guessed, correctly, that he was a teacher. I am now installed in his room and Jock is audibly munching corn at the other side of the wall.
For the past two hours my host and I have been conversing in shouts above the welcome drumming of heavy rain on the tin roof. Hailu is Addis-born and full of grumbles about having been forced by the Government to come to this godforsaken town for two years. There are five other teachers here, two of whom are women, which is unusual.
Now the servant is unrolling my flea-bag on a cowhide on the earthen floor – to Hailu’s distress, for he wants the guest to have his bed. It is very agreeable to be in a country where one needn’t hesitate about sharing a bedroom with a young man whose face one hasn’t even seen clearly. Whatever the other hazards of highland travel, a woman knows that as a woman she can trust every man in every circumstance. This remarkable chivalry is so integral a part of the highland atmosphere that I had come to take it for granted – until it was underlined recently by the behaviour of an ostensibly civilised faranj, who was also staying at Lalibela and who never suffered from the hotel-manager’s initial delusion. His attempts to make me drunk, and then to invade my room, provided much food for thought on the subject of Comparative Civilisations.
Cynics like to explain away the highlanders’ code of chivalry by referring to their habitually varied sex-lives. However, even in Ethiopia variety is not easily obtainable in settlements or villages and an explanation which appeals to me much more was given by Colonel Aziz. He said that traditionally the highlanders regard unknown women as representatives of the Virgin Mary, and he added – with a realism which acted as a splendid foil to this romanticism – that if any unknown woman indicated that she would appreciate some relaxation on her way then the local men would be happy to oblige; but the initiative must be hers. Here the cynics may scoff, yet my own experience of the highlanders’ behaviour convinces me that Colonel Aziz’s explanation is essentially true.
When we left Kulmask this morning the air was sharply fresh, running water sang on every slope, the track was deep in sticky mud and it seemed that the valley below Lalibela must surely be a thousand miles away.
From Kulmask to Waldia the ‘provisory road’ goes a long way round, so we followed the old track through high ranges that were utterly different from anything else I’ve seen in Ethiopia. This fertile region is thickly populated and we were crossing irrigated fields and richly moist ploughland, or walking between bright slopes that swept greenly down in unbroken lines from the grey jaggedness of high escarpments. On these generous pastures grazed many herds of cattle, horses and goats; and at midday we reached sheep-level, where there were few settlements or fields.
Here a piercingly cold gale opposed us from the east and by 1.30 surly purple clouds were hanging low above us, and thunder was incessantly crackling and roaring around the nearby summits and with its echoes producing a strange, wildly beautiful rhythm. Then hail briefly scourged this high plateau with such violence that I took refuge beneath Jock’s belly.
Ten minutes later we stepped on to the edge of the tableland and below us, to north and south, lay stairways of lower mountains, their giant steps gleaming white. For a moment I imagined that it had been snowing; then I realised that this was where the hailstorm had spent itself. Here the sun shone again and the lighting was almost intolerably beautiful. Beyond these sparkling ledges were motionless layers of dove-grey or navy-blue clouds, half concealing rough summits, and far, far beneath, in a golden valley, ripe grain glistened like a silken carpet.
While Jock grazed I sat on a rock and looked with joy at all this loveliness; but soon after we had begun the descent I was regretting not having looked more intelligently at the precipice and less ecstatically at the loveliness.
This 500-foot escarpment provided a new kind of wrack for my nerves. It was almost sheer and it jutted out over the valley – which lay another 1,500 feet below, with nothing but good fresh air in between. Even Jock took a pessimistic view and had to be led. Then, a third of the way down, I lost my nerve and we got stuck. Looking about in wild surmise I saw that we had taken the wrong route, for directly below the top there had been no definite path. Now, however, the correct route was visible – two hundred yards away, separated from us by a wide, perpendicular crack in the cliff-face.
When I decided to return to the crest to make a fresh start I discovered that Jock couldn’t turn. Never before have I been so near to panic. This was completely irrational, as a drop of 2,000 feet is no more dangerous than one of 500, but I shuddered at the sight of the ground so very far below and at the extreme insecurity of this friable precipice; and Jock’s trembling appeared to justify my own jitters. Yet we couldn’t spend the rest of our days like carvings on a cliff-face so I set about regaining my nerve by gazing steadily down at the valley floor, in the hope that familiarity would breed sufficient contempt for me to be able to continue calmly. Then I moved forward, and Jock reluctantly followed. For the next forty slow minutes we were descending – with occasional ascents, necessitated by deep gullies or insurmountable outcrops of rock. Half the stones I trod on went hurtling into space: the loose clay crumbled at every step: a minor landslide started if I leant on my dula: the thorny scrub ‘came away in me ’and’ if I despairingly grabbed it. And all the time I was waiting for the worst to happen to Jock.
When at last we rejoined the path our route was clear, though awkward. We continued along the base of the escarpment, away from the golden valley, before again descending into a deep gorge where a river flowed strongly through dense, dark green forest.
Sometimes the kaleidoscopic quality of these highlands seems dreamlike. Beyond this swirling brown river we walked beneath a twilit tangle of trees, creepers and ferns – then we were in a hot, wet valley where young wheat and lush pastures glittered emerald, the air was gay with the rushing of flood waters and around the many compounds grew tall cacti, their brilliant clumps of coral-pink berries like brooches pinned on the breast of the earth. Yet only this morning we had been on a cold, austere plateau of close-cropped turf and rough granite, and less than thirty-six hours ago we crossed that shrivelled, colourless, waterless ‘Valley of Death’.
This luxuriant landscape made walking difficult. For a few miles our track was the bed of a two-foot deep stream that raced downhill over round, slippery stones. Next came gradually sloping pastures, where I sank to my ankles at every step while poor Jock slithered miserably on the black mud – and here the load slipped, though it is now so light and compact. Luckily we were by then meeting many mule and donkey caravans, on their way home from Waldia market, and two kind men paused to help.
For the last hour we followed the river through a wide ravine between wooded cliffs. Repeatedly we had to cross the swift, cold, dark-brown flood, but it was never deep. As we approached this five-tukul compound, on the outskirts of a village, dusk was thickening to darkness and the sky had again clouded over. I’m now installed in the main tukul, which is bigger than average – and it would need to be, for at night it shelters seven adults, four children, three donkeys, a mule and sundry poultry.
This evening I’m anxious about Jock. Despite his improved working conditions he seems in poor shape after today’s twenty-six miles, even though they were easy, apart from that precipice.
Last night must go among the Top Ten of hellish vigils. Within moments of entering that tukul I had realised that it was uncommonly well-stocked with fleas, bugs and body-lice – a new plague. These lice tend to induce an unpleasant fever so it was disconcerting to find that my last tin of insecticide had all leaked away. Then a violent thunderstorm broke and the force of the rain on the thatched roof loosened showers of large and very peculiar insects, who stampeded over me vigorously but elusively. This double downpour continued until 2.30 a.m., by which time the stench of animal urine was so strong that it might reasonably have been expected to asphyxiate any number of insects. But unhappily it did not.
Soon after 10 p.m. the fire was covered, everyone curled up beneath cow-hides and I began my eight-hour ordeal. However, there were diversions. A mirthfully inebriated all-night party was being held in the next-door tukul and we were treated to one donkey-fight and one cock-fight. The kicking, biting, squealing donkeys wakened everyone; and an hour after they had been separated, and tied to opposite walls, the populace again rose as one man to intervene between a pair of apoplectic cocks, one of whom was imprisoned, with difficulty, in a sack. The other then returned sulkily to his roost, some two feet above my head, and at about 3 a.m. he caused me to leap like a shot rabbit when he made a machine-gun-like noise with his wings before beginning to crow stridently. During the rest of the night he crowed every ten or fifteen minutes. If I had been capable of feeling anything at 6 a.m. I would have felt glad that the sun had risen.
My host was also coming to Waldia, bringing three donkeys loaded with hides, and at 6.45 we joined a caravan of nineteen other donkeys and seven men. The sky was clear, but I have never anywhere encountered so much or such slippery mud. For an hour we were slithering into and out of a series of flooded ravines; then suddenly we were beyond the area of last night’s storm and the track went winding over bare, grey hills that looked as though they hadn’t had rain for a decade. A tough climb up a forested mountain brought Waldia’s blue-gums within sight and by eleven o’clock we had arrived at this dreary little town.
I felt exhausted as we approached the tin roofs and truck noises. By 1 p.m. I had bought a big feed of dried peas for Jock (oddly, no corn was available), and had renewed my supply of insecticide. Then I retired to my cleanish room, in this Italian-built, Ethiopian-run truck-drivers’ ‘hotel’, and slept until 5 p.m.
When I woke rain was crashing on the tin roof and one of the local teachers was awaiting me in the bar. He invited me to have dinner in his room and an hour ago I waded back here through an ankle-deep torrent of thin mud. If these are the ‘Little Rains’ one can easily believe that travelling is impossible in the highlands during the ‘Big Rains’ of June to September.
Today we were following the motor-road for all of our twenty-three miles, yet Jock seemed alarmingly tired towards evening.
This morning Waldia stank like a neglected public lavatory but beyond the town the rain-clear air was delicately scented by a flowering tree, with blossoms like balls of pale-yellow fluff, that grows here on many of the steep slopes. A long climb took us over the first of several passes, the road coiling around sheer, bare, brown mountains, from which streamed frequent miniature landslides of rain-loosened soil. Then we descended to a broad valley of many settlements and stubble-fields, where maize seemed to be the main crop. The landscape was bright with fifteen-foot-high pointed stooks of maize straw, looking like so many golden wigwams, and each stook had a thorn fence around its base as a protection against hungry cattle. These tall, thick maize stalks are a common local building material, being used to reinforce tukul walls and to form ceilings under the usual grass thatch. Most of the cattle here grow enormous, spreading horns – something I haven’t seen since leaving Tigre. This breed is lightly built and if the animals are underfed they walk as though their horns were too heavy for them to carry.
Soon a strong wind arose and by one o’clock the sky was two-thirds clouded over. Colossal mountains towered ruggedly around us and here the road became another example of Italian engineering genius. Today Jock was slightly temperamental about traffic but luckily we had to contend with no more than eight buses and nine trucks.
This big Jabarti compound is beside the road and high above it a Coptic settlement clings to the mountainside, half hidden by tangled bush and giant cacti. Despite its size the compound contains only one small tukul – the home of a young couple – and a long, Italian bungalow which may have been an army post during the Occupation. Five of the six rooms are no longer habitable and in the other lives a trio of ancient crones – one without a right eye, another without a left hand and the third pitifully burn-disfigured. These are my hostesses, and soon after I had entered their unfurnished, high-ceilinged home – illuminated only by the flicker of a tiny oil-lamp – the three abruptly rose, faced Mecca and began their evening prayers. They used a cow-hide prayer-mat and made a weird picture as they stood close together near the door, performing their rituals in unison, silhouetted against the cloudy dusk.
A meagre supper of injara and bean-wat was brought from the tukul and though the poverty of this family is extreme everyone insisted that I should have some. Now two donkeys, a cow, a calf and Jock are being driven into another room, which I have decided to share with the livestock in preference to being a meal for bugs.
St Patrick’s Day – appropriately, my first all-cloudy day in Ethiopia. When we set out at 6.30 it felt like a wet summer’s morning in Ireland, for soft rain was falling steadily and clouds hung low over a warm, dripping world. From the first pass I could see three new ranges with rags of silver mist trailing across and between their blueness. As we reached the valley floor the rain became a deluge and soon I was suffering from humidity – a strange sensation, after three months of exhilarating dryness. Here we slogged through mile after mile of thick, sticky mud and it was impossible to keep swarms of tickling flies off my face and neck. However, these incidental discomforts seemed well worthwhile when I looked around at the gloriously green countryside. Twice during the morning I stopped to graze Jock, who tore ravenously at the sweet, fresh grass. I hope his bowels survive this drastic change of diet.
Then came another long, sweaty climb to a high pass where a sleety wind flayed us. From here sections of the road were visible for many miles ahead, descending around mountain after mountain, and it was three o’clock before we reached the valley floor. The rough terrain ahead seemed likely to be uninhabited so I called at a settlement, bought a bundle of straw for Jock’s supper and tied it to the top of the load, ignoring Jock’s hint that it was already supper-time. He is indeed an astute animal. Normally he never stops to shake himself more than once a day, but today he chanced to shake after I had bought the straw and a little of it fell off, so I foolishly paused to give him time to eat it. Cause and effect were not lost on our Jock. Soon he stopped to shake again, turned expectantly towards the few dislodged mouthfuls and looked cheated when I cruelly picked them up and stuffed them back with the rest.
At the end of the next climb the road levelled out to wind around forested slopes where there were no sounds of voices or signs of cultivation. At sunset a barren valley appeared below us and on the far side I could see our road climbing another high, tukul-less range. I could also see a wide bridge, spanning a half-full river-bed, so as the sky promised more heavy rain I decided to camp beneath one of its arches. By the time we reached the bridge it was dark, and because Jock was stumbling wearily after our twenty-eight miles we had some difficulty getting down to river-level and finding a site. I cursed myself for having neglected to buy a torch in Waldia, where it hadn’t occurred to me that it might be necessary to camp out on the main road.
In the morning I’ll have to wait for a passing truck-driver to load Jock. However, this shouldn’t cause much delay, as southbound trucks often stop overnight at Waldia.
It rained heavily last night, but the Italians built solid bridges and I woke dry, though stiff. My bed was a pile of small boulders, yet having once arranged my body in the most comfortable position even this unpromising couch didn’t seem to matter. Wakening at 5.30, I saw that my tethering of Jock in the dark had been so inefficient that he had broken loose and had joined me under the arch, no doubt to shelter from the downpour.
As I was packing up, the distant roar of a giant petrol-truck reverberated through the valley. The driver and his mate made a clumsy job of the loading – possibly because they were so astonished by the whole situation – but in a village on the crest of the next ridge, where I stopped at a rudimentary ‘bar-restaurant’, the servants reloaded carefully.
I was relishing my third big glass of tea when a tall, elderly man entered the shack, wearing scanty rags and carrying a bundle tied to his dula. Sitting near me, he ordered a small glass of tea, which costs only five cents in many areas. Then he quickly asked ‘How much?’ and, on being told ‘Ten cents’, cancelled his order and stood up to leave without argument or complaint. Obviously he was starting a long day’s walk so I ordered tea and dabo for him, and after a moment’s surprised hesitation he accepted his change of fortune with dignified gratitude. This tiny incident affected me more than any number of statistics on poverty.
All morning the road climbed gradually, the light breeze was cool and puffy white cloudlets drifted across a deep blue sky. We passed many settlements and on glistening pastures herds grazed contentedly, while from the smooth greenness rose long, brown mountains, with pine-woods darkening their lower slopes and round clouds resting on their summits – seeming to reflect faintly the cinnamon tinges of the earth beneath.
At 10.30 we stopped in a small town and Jock applied himself to the fresh grass that grew around the talla-beit. On the way from Waldia I have rested in several towns and villages and I find the people of this (Wallo) province exceptionally friendly and hospitable. They seem less susceptible to the ‘main-road infection’ than the people of Begemdir – or perhaps they have been less exposed to it – and in the village homes one sees few foreign innovations.
On the long climb to the pass above Dessie the road wound around mountains so colossal that I felt like a midge on a cathedral wall; here every slope blazed with the waxy, orange-red flowers of a small cactus plant which grew amidst a scattering of shimmering blue-green eucalyptus saplings. Because of the contortions of these mountains one first sees Dessie – hardly two miles away, but far, far below – about three hours before one arrives. After a long westward detour over the pass the road swings south-east, crosses a minor mountain and drops abruptly to the provincial capital.
On the pass we were joined by a friendly couple, also bound for Dessie, who offered to show me a short cut. Together we left the road and descended steeply to boggy, level pastures, which soon became waterlogged ploughland, divided into sections by channels some three feet wide and four feet deep. Here it was almost impossible to keep upright for this newly-turned, flood-sodden clay was like a mixture of butter and treacle. Then, as we were crossing one of the channels, Jock misjudged his jump and slipped backward into the water. At first only his hind legs were stuck, but in his struggles to free himself he turned, slipped again, and became wedged between the walls of the channel.
For the next horrible half-hour the three of us, assisted by two small local boys, floundered through mud and water encouraging poor Jock to help himself. There was little else to be done, apart from removing his load and saddle – in the course of which operation I twice fell into the foul liquid at the bottom of the ditch. I could hardly bear to watch the unhappy creature again and again heaving up towards relatively solid ground, but always being defeated by slipperiness and lack of manoeuvring space. Then at last he freed himself sufficiently for me to force him to turn in the other direction and I persuaded him to work his way along, slowly, to a point where the channel widened enough for him to jump clear. He looked shaken and miserable as we reloaded and liquid mud had increased the weight of both load and saddle. So I decided to give him a day off tomorrow.
On the outskirts of Dessie the friendly couple said goodbye and, as we continued towards the Touring Hotel, scores of delighted children were attracted to us by my mud-blackened person.
According to the official guidebook this Italian-built hotel ‘offers fair service at moderate prices, but it is usually empty and has a gloomy atmosphere’. I have noticed before that the author of Welcome to Ethiopia makes it a point of honour never to mislead faranjs on the subject of Ethiopian hotels, and in his anxiety to be objective he sometimes goes too far. This enormous, clean building is furnished with elaborate tastelessness and, to the extent that only two of its one hundred and four bedrooms are occupied tonight, it does perhaps justify the adjective gloomy. Yet the staff welcomed us so cheerfully that it seems to me quite a jolly place. Two maidservants conducted me to my room, down an interminable carpeted corridor on which I deposited ounces of mud at every step; and when I apologised for the havoc in my wake they laughed loudly, patted me forgivingly on the shoulder and told me that I was like a buccolo in the tukul. Perhaps they were glad to have something to do.
My 12/– room has a large window that opens, a knee-hole writing-desk, a comfortable bed, a bedside lamp, a washbasin into which water will flow (I am assured) tomorrow morning, and a palatial wardrobe whose door-handles fall off at a touch. (This last point is of merely academic interest, since I have no robes to ward.) But the most valuable feature of the whole extraordinary establishment is its garden – some three acres of uncut grass, on which Jock is now gorging in the company of four bullocks, two sheep and five turkeys. This opulent grazing more than compensates for the fact that none of the taps in the innumerable bathrooms produces water, so I had to de-mud myself under a hesitantly-dripping cold shower. The Manageress is a blonde Italian woman, who was born sixty years ago in Eritrea. Universally known as ‘Mamma’, she is by far the fattest and one of the kindest people I have ever met.
There is a tragicomic incongruity about some Ethiopian place-names. Dessie means ‘My Joy’, yet never have I seen such a depressingly ugly collection of human habitations. This is the third city of Ethiopia, with a population of about 80,000; but, as my guidebook explains, ‘It is actually hard to call Dessie a city or a town; rather it fits the description of “over-grown village”. Though the “town” is cramped in a small valley, its important position between the lowlands and the plateau and between Addis Ababa and Asmara, has contributed to its growth as an important commercial centre.’
However, by switching off the current between eyes and brain it is possible eventually to derive some joy from Dessie. The friendly people seem much more outgoing than most highlanders and, despite its monstrous ugliness, I greatly prefer this city to alien Asmara. At least Dessie is genuinely Ethiopian, with donkeys browsing in front gardens throughout the ‘residential district’, and women washing clothes in the gutters of the main streets.
Today I got into conversation with my fellow-guest – a withdrawn young government official from Addis, whose strained expression worried me until I discovered that dysentery is the cause. The patient blamed Dessie’s water and asserted that Ethiopia is a very dangerous country for travellers. This is the first time that he has left the capital, in all his twenty-six years, and he hopes never to be forced to leave it again.
Jock’s condition is not reassuring tonight. I have misgivings about his ability to cope with our last lap across the high plateau of Manz.