Notes from the Hyena's Belly

by Nega Mezlekia

  The mourning woman was overcome with hysteria. She wailed in utter despair before losing her balance and falling to the ground. When she finally regained her senses, she found herself cradled in the arms of the two miserable beggars. A crowd, four rows deep, gathered about the trio and stared. Lying on the ground of the bus station, among the chaos and litter, her small daughter clinging to her arm, suddenly it all made sense to her. These two strangers were not beggars at all, but angels in disguise, who had come down to Earth to deliver a warning. They had arrived in time to save her and her daughter from the wretched misery that had engulfed the family after the loss of her son. She opened her purse and emptied its contents into the laps of the couple, and was glad to do so.

  * * *

  WE WERE FINALLY able to obtain our tickets about a week after I was released from jail, thanks to a fairly sizeable bribe. Once aboard the bus, it would take us five hours to get to our destination.

  The road to Asebe Teferi is carved into the mountainside. Our journey occurred during the wet season when the hillside was sodden with rain and fell away beneath the most practised of steps. The narrow gravel road, which could accommodate only a single vehicle at the best of times, was, therefore, the only means of travel, and was shared by men, cattle and wild animals alike.

  As the bus passed by farms and villages, neighbourhood dogs would bark and give chase, attempting to sink their teeth into the bone-dry rubber of the bumpers. Children often joined with the dogs, snatching at the back of the bus, hanging precariously from its cargo ladder and back end. For most of these kids, the surreptitious moments spent dangling from the backs of passing buses would be the closest they would ever come to riding in an automobile.

  About forty-five minutes into our trip, we reached a scenic region where the houses clung to the face of the mountain on one side of the road, and distant villages dotted the green landscape sixty metres below us on the other. Shepherd boys occupied strategic posts high on the cliffs, very much like a defending army prepared to launch an attack on a hostile convoy. The driver pulled over to the side of the road, lifted a duffel bag from behind his seat, and called the boys down.

  They recognized him immediately, clambering down the cliff face like wild monkeys descending on some unexpected bounty, arms extended before them, laughing and charging ahead of one another. When they reached our driver, some shook his hand, others bowed and kissed his fingers; all stood around with an undisguised air of anticipation. The driver took the time to inquire about their health and well-being, how this or that boy’s mother fared (despite the fact that he had most likely never met her), then opened his bag and dispensed his gifts of sweets, toys and soccer balls. They were happy beyond words and jumped up and down with glee. The driver’s face was transformed with pleasure. He asked the children if there was anything he could bring them from town on his return trip. They could not think of one.

  I was touched by this display of generosity, by the spectacle of this angelic character who made a difference in the lives of poor shepherd boys. When I couldn’t restrain my curiosity any longer, I walked to the driver’s seat and asked him why he was so kind. A shadow fell over his face. In a serious tone of voice he admitted to me that he had no choice. Perched high on the cliffside, stones at their feet, the kids could really damage buses.

  The shepherd boys’ skill in using slingshots was surpassed only by their mountaineering genius. Although this highway was the main artery connecting the southern regions with the nation’s capital, it saw only light traffic, and the frequent travellers were easily identified by the boys. The prudent commuter paid a simple toll.

  Before long we stopped in Kulubi, where driver and passengers alike made sacrifices and offerings in recognition of St. Gabriel in delivering us safely to this point in our journey.

  * * *

  KULUBI IS HOME to the largest and most celebrated church in the whole of Ethiopia. At the time of its construction—it was a ramshackle hut, initially—there were already two churches within twenty kilometres dedicated to the same saint. Many considered it irresponsible to build a third one within a stone’s throw—as it only added to the confusion that St. Gabriel had been experiencing lately. Everyone knew that after the addition of the second church St. Gabriel’s miracles had begun to diminish in size and frequency; and that prayers and pleas directed to one saint, at the same hour and from two separate locations, had ended in disaster, for the requests of the two parishes were too often mutually exclusive. One parish might pray for rain in their village, for the crops, while another living close to the river might beg the saint to keep the rain from falling, in order to keep the water level low as it passed through their village. One man might ask the good saint to keep his bee farm prolific, while another asked him to care for his horses—resulting in bees that multiplied quickly before falling dead from the sky, as bee stings were fatal to horses. Often enough, it was the absolute number of the requests that resulted in disaster. So many parishioners had begged him for boys, and so many for girls, that he lost track of whom to grant the requests to—sending a dizzying number of variously gendered children to all who were capable of bearing young. Adding a third church of St. Gabriel within shouting distance would only compound the problem, the parishioners argued, and sent a delegation of elders to intercede on their behalf and aid the people of Kulubi in finding another, sympathetic saint.

  After much lobbying, the elders agreed to meet with the representatives of Kulubi in the half-finished confines of the new church. Outside, villagers slaughtered a healthy bull, serving the choice parts to the elders—raw. An abundant supply of tella and arake was placed inside the church with the two parties—to help the elders see the light—before the doors of the church were padlocked, and a guard was placed outside the door to make sure that no one wandered off before a sound decision was reached.

  The elders spent a day and a half locked inside the latest church of St. Gabriel, trying to find an appropriate replacement saint, one who would look after the people of this village and the properties of the community without further diminishing the miracle quotient.

  St. Michael was immediately ruled out. People could not forget what had happened to the church of St. Michael in Jijiga. Though it was by far the largest church in Ethiopia to be named for this saint, it hadn’t withstood the hardships that were sent to test it. Founded generations before, the church occupied a sprawling tract of land in the heart of the city, fenced in with high stone walls and iron gates. Several houses shared the compound with the church; some were used as preschool classrooms, some as homes for the monks, and still others as tombs for the local rich.

  The church had been repeatedly burglarized over the years, and had once been demolished by Somali invaders, generations in the past. Recalling these sad omens, the priests of Kulubi reasoned that the locals would have no faith in anyone who was unable to care for his own home.

  St. Peter was ruled out because of his poor performance in a small village nearby. He had not intervened when half of the villagers had been wiped out by cholera, and he stood by in silence as a school of locusts descended upon the valley, destroying the crops and causing famine. As if that were not enough, St. Peter neglected to bring rain on time. In fact, half of the parishioners attending the church of St. Peter had lost their faith so completely as to revert to the Adbar for their most pressing needs. They now went to church only for baptisms and funerals.

  St. Joseph was eliminated without argument. It was common knowledge that he had fallen from favour with Christ. Very few churches had named themselves for this saint to begin with, and those that had quickly repented. Many of them had gone so far as to change the paintings that graced their church, so as to make their small temples unrecognizable to their former patron.

  When one of the visiting elders suggested that the new church be dedicated to the Virgin Mary, the priests of Kulubi were insulted. They knew that only large cities could afford the luxury of naming a church for Mary—it was
a sign of deference and respect to honour Christ’s mother that way. In the city, parishioners were able to take their most desperate prayers to a neighbouring church, dedicated to a saint known for actually performing miracles. Besides, it was unmanly to pray to the Virgin Mary. Only women in labour directed their prayers to her, in hope that she would view them with sympathy. In any case, St. Gabriel would easily deliver far more in the way of miracles.

  Needless to say, the deliberations did not end amicably. The priests of Kulubi could not be persuaded to take up any other patron saint for their church and the visiting elders expressed their displeasure by refusing to recognize the new church and threatening to petition the Archbishop for an injunction.

  The subsequent rise to fame of the Kulubi church of St. Gabriel was nothing short of a miracle. The local farmers were the first to reap the benefits of St. Gabriel’s patronage. The prayers of the people of Kulubi were swiftly answered—whether they prayed for rain, a good harvest, twin calves, the death of a neighbour or the birth of a child. Year after year, the size and extent of the pleas increased, and St. Gabriel did not waver—the rains came on time, the harvest was abundant, the people were prolific, and many enemies fell dead through the intervention of St. Gabriel, who granted all requests but the most sinful. In return, the church received generous sacrifices in the form of bulls, cows, sheep, goats, grain and even gold. In less than two decades, the poor cottage had been replaced by a majestic building whose cathedral dome was inlaid with gold and marble. Nothing of its like had been seen in the region before.

  No one was more surprised by the achievements of this church than its poorer cousins, the two original parishes of St. Gabriel. Many theories were advanced to explain the spectacular success of Kulubi, but the most popular one, by far, had to do with its location. Because the church was on higher ground, and was therefore closer to the heavens, prayers offered from its confines could of course be more easily heard.

  In the past, churches had been built at ever-increasing altitudes, though the results were mixed. The church of Debre Damo, for example, was built at the tip of a precipice so high in the heavens that its spire is often hidden in clouds. The land on which the church is situated is so small that storks avoid it entirely for fear of running out of runway; and the cliffsides are so steep that mountain goats shy away from them. The only access to this church is by climbing a slowly swinging rope that is hung from the church’s entrance.

  The parishioners are all trained in rope climbing from an early age. By adulthood, most are expert at mountaineering. This training, however, doesn’t guarantee a safe sabbath. There are numerous stories of pendant parishioners losing their grip and falling to the parched earth below, twisting an ankle, breaking a rib or even fracturing a skull. But the parishioners are aware that such accidents are the Devil’s deeds, and refuse to be deterred from attending mass. They wipe the blood from their brows, bind their broken ankles and reach for the rope yet again. Once on top, the crippled parishioners are congratulated by many others who have lost an eye, a tooth, an ear or a limb in past endeavours, and are hailed as heroes and heroines of the day by priests who, since the wee hours of the morning, have been inhaling fumes of the seraphic fig, also known as marijuana, to elevate themselves to an even higher plane of awareness.

  For decades the parishioners of Debre Damo kept their zeal, and attended mass without faltering. Then they realized that they were being short-changed; that their efforts did not guarantee the deserved reward. They did not have far to look for evidence—the nearby Church of Lalibela was standing proof.

  Even though the roof of the building is at ground level, the Church of Lalibela is an impressive structure in the shape of a crucifix, carved from a single rock. In order to find the church, one would have to know exactly what to look for. And yet it delivered just as many miracles as its rival church of Debre Damo, without the attendant injuries. At one time, pilgrims would travel hundreds of kilometres in order to partake of the church’s generosity. Sacrifices were made at its doorsteps, and warriors crossed mountains to seal a pact of peace in the shadows of the temple. The Church of Lalibela fell out of grace only when it was discovered that its miracles could be reproduced at a nearby shrine, at much less expense to the parishioner.

  * * *

  WORD OF KULUBI’S success got out; people from all over the country started directing their most pressing needs to that distant land, shaming their home-grown churches. The bedridden prayed for a day in the sun, the crippled begged for a life without crutches, and mothers petitioned on behalf of demented children. St. Gabriel of Kulubi obliged; miracle after miracle unfolded. And the legend started growing as fast as the wealth of the Lord’s House.

  On St. Gabriel’s Day, which is celebrated on December 28, some three hundred buses filled with pilgrims descend upon Kulubi, while thousands of others trudge in on foot from nearby towns. The vast domain of land surrounding the church, which once seemed to swallow her in its awesome expanse, becomes a hive of human worship. Those whose prayers have been answered by St. Gabriel of Kulubi come forward to tell of the power of the saint. Standing on platforms, each announces the miracle that has transformed his or her life. A middle-aged woman, tears streaming down her face, displays the child she has borne after years of fruitless marriage; a fragile-looking man, delirious with joy, raises a limb, once withered, that has been healed by prayer. A long list of miracles follows throughout the afternoon, as those who have journeyed so far bear witness to their attainments.

  At night the celebrations intensify. Barbecued meat, offered freely as a form of sacrifice, is sampled by all. Alcohol flows freely. And the recipients of St. Gabriel’s largesse lose themselves in a world of passion.

  * * *

  OUR NEXT STOP was the town of Hirna. Midway between Harar and Asebe Teferi, buses and trucks travelling between the two cities pause for food and refreshment at one of the many restaurants this town has built in response to the traffic, most of which serve delicious, affordable meals, at an uncommon speed of service. The morning and evening hours in town are slow. Activities pick up at about eleven o’clock, reach a climax at one, and wind down by three in the afternoon. Within this time frame, one can see men running from their buses to lunch and drinks at a restaurant. After lunch, these men mount forays to the local hotel for a quick act of coitus with a local prostitute, before running, at breakneck speed, back to the bus.

  No sooner had our bus started to roll out of town than some of the passengers began to moan, and show signs of distress. These newcomers to the bus were peasants from deep in the mountains who had seldom had an opportunity to ride any form of vehicle. A family of three, two rows behind me, were the most pitiable. When they first boarded the bus, their six-year-old boy was all smiles, full of anticipation for their grand adventure to Asebe Teferi. As the vehicle rolled out of town, he leaped up, counting out trees as they passed us, before weakly staring into the distance as his head began to spin. He collapsed almost immediately. His mother picked him up and laid his head in her lap, before doubling up over him. She pressed her shaking hands to her ears, to block out the rumbling sound of the engine. Minutes later, the boy’s father leaped up, struggling to open the window. Before he could figure out the mechanism, he had thrown up on the glass. The conductor cursed up and down the aisle, and made the man clean up his mess before he would open the window for him. Before returning to his seat at the front of the bus, the conductor lit a stick of ood that smelt like a sickly mixture of wildflowers and manure, and handed it to the man.

  Silence descended on our bus. After a long and quiet journey we came to a stretch of road about two hundred metres long. Ahead of us, I could just make out the dark outline of an object that lay lifeless in the middle of the road. At first, I thought it was an old spare tire that had fallen from a truck. As the bus came closer, I saw that the object was moving, lazily coiling in on itself, before raising its head to stare at our party. It was a six-metre-long rock python.

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bsp; The bus came to a halt about fifteen metres in front of the animal. The passengers got out of their seats and rushed forward for a look. Many encouraged the driver to simply run the snake over, but he refused. In the past, the driver had come across a wide variety of wild animals, and was wary of confrontations. While driving a Land Rover in the western province of Arussi, for example, he had come upon a pride of lions sunning themselves lazily in the middle of the road. It was, as now, the rainy season, and the only dry land to be found was the macadamized road. He did everything he could think of to discourage them: he revved the engine, honked the horn, banged the doors. Finally, desperate to pass, the driver decided to gently nudge the pack from his path with the nose of his car. The herd’s reaction was swift. The lion mounted the hood and shook the vehicle through and through with casual swipes at the windshield. The lionesses and their cubs leaped onto the back of the vehicle, and began to slowly waltz over the burlap sacks of maize that he was carrying. It took a few terrifying minutes of erratic driving to shake the beasts from his pickup.

  The snake, however, did not take much persuasion to relinquish his possession of the highway. It caught sight of an animal in the bush and its hunger overtook its lethargy. We managed to resume our journey, and a few minutes later we arrived safely in Asebe Teferi.

  AN ALIEN ADBAR