As we descended to this valley Abebe told me that our party – except for the Muslim – would here make a slight detour to pray at the church, which is dedicated to Emmanuel and celebrates its patron’s feast day on Christmas Eve. Now I could see many white-clad figures passing between the trees on the hill-top, and a few graceful groups of elders had gathered on the bright meadows beneath to discuss immemorial village problems.
Within the overgrown church enclosure men were everywhere, but the women – some fifty or sixty of them – stood together on one side of the main door, their off-white shammas covering their heads. Here I heard for the first time that eerie, melodious ululation which highland women produce on such ceremonial occasions; the trembling wave of sound, which is never sustained for more than a few moments, has an unforgettable purity and poignancy.
This circular church was typical of its kind – an old building, crudely constructed of stone, mud and wood, and recently reroofed with tin. No one suggested that the faranj female should enter it, so I took the hint. Soon after our arrival seven priests emerged from the main door and led some twenty debtaras (deacons) around the church three times in a noisy procession. The chief priest held aloft a silver Coptic cross and the others waved strange little silver rattles (sistra) that tinkled pleasantly. Two debtaras walked backwards before the priests, each vigorously beating a three-foot oblong drum, and the other youths kept up a loud, cheerful chanting and clapping of hands. Despite the importance of the occasion no fine robes were worn. The chief priest was draped in a creased and torn black gown, but the rest were in ordinary clothes, apart from the untidy white turbans always worn by all ordained clergy.
As we left the enclosure the Governor invited me, through Abebe, to have lunch at his mother’s home. (He had heard of me in Askum and knew that I was a protégée of Leilt Aida.) Already I had become fond of Ato Gabre Mariam – a burly little man with a pompous manner but kind eyes – so I gratefully accepted this invitation and a steep two-mile climb brought us to a tiny settlement surrounded by wild fig-trees.
The Governor had not been expected and his old mother almost wept for joy when he appeared; immediately we were all ushered into an empty hut, made of new green branches intertwined with old stakes, and while the men were gathering to embrace and kiss their distinguished relative excited children spread straw on the earth floor and laid hides on top of it for our greater comfort. Then the women brought in a huge jar of talla and a flat basket of roasted whole barley, and half-an-hour later black coffee was served in tiny handleless cups (made in China!). Lunch was not ready until 2.30, by which time we were well away on our second jar of talla and full of festive cheer. This ‘Christmas talla’ was a refined, clear brew that looked rather like English ‘mild’.
For lunch countless rounds of injara were laid on the wicker stands – about the height and circumference of a coffee-table – which are used as communal plates. Then fast-day bean-wat was ladled on to the centre of the injara, and when a little boy had poured water over our hands we set to, pulling off strips of injara – beginning around the edge – and enfolding in them mouthfuls of wat. This wat was so fiercely spiced that tears were slowly running down my cheeks by the end of the meal. Luckily we also had two delicious purées; one was white and unspiced, made from ground peas, the other was brown and slightly spiced, made from ground beans – and both had been beaten to the lightness of a soufflé.
The formalities of highland social life bring much elegance into these primitive homes. When the Governor’s young relatives came to greet him, they touched both his feet with their lips and forehead before being raised by him and receiving kisses on their right cheeks; and it is evident that where everyone has his established position in the hierarchy such rites have an almost religious significance. Not that they are confined to special people or special occasions – they also grace the simplest actions between equals. When one man hands another a gourd of talla he never holds it out unthinkingly, but presents it with both hands, bowing slightly. And the recipient accepts it with both hands, half rising if he is seated, and inclining his head. In this way each trivial human interchange pleasingly becomes a miniature ceremony; and today I realised that I myself have already adopted some of the less obvious highland conventions – not deliberately, to be polite, but as an unconscious response to the finding of something that was lost. My instincts could hardly be less conventional, yet to me these antique highland customs seem not mere empty gestures but symbols of an essential stability at the heart of society. Seen against the background of our helter-skelter civilisation they would appear comical or tiresome; seen here they are sad reminders of all that we have discarded on our way to efficiency. It is not surprising that when highland peasants have an opportunity to observe Western social behaviour they imagine us to be a race of unfeeling barbarians.
We were back on the trail uncomfortably soon after lunch, lest darkness should fall before we reached this village – where Ato Gabre Mariam has invited me to spend the night in his compound. Beyond the settlement we crossed a region of black lava rock and stony fields; then a long, precipitous descent brought us to the Plain of Fools – so called because travellers often fancy themselves near the end of it when many miles remain to be covered. But personally I was not at all anxious to reach the end of such a blissful walk – through strong, clear sunshine, with a cool wind sweeping up from the south and an apparent infinity of rugged glory on every side.
From this plateau our path again descended – steep as a ladder – into a deep gorge; and then it immediately ascended, equally steeply, to the next plateau. Here Abebe indicated a tree-covered hill on the near horizon and explained that our destination lay just beyond it; this landmark looked less than a mile away, but the intervening terrain was so chaotic – there were two more deep chasms – that it took us another hour to reach it.
Aedat tops the highest escarpment I have yet seen and we approached it by rounding the wooded hill above an apparently bottomless canyon. Now a brief sunset splendour – crimson, orange, bronze and lemon – was seeping through all the sky. And as this glow touched the ochre, purple, yellow and white of the cliffs beyond the void, our whole world seemed caught up in a triumphant conflagration of beauty. Then we saw the little village – built of pink stone – and it too was so wondrously glowing that for an instant one doubted its reality.
From this high, narrow ridge the cobalt roughness of the Semiens stood out darkly against a reddening horizon; and to the west more distant, smoother mountains were lilac against a primrose sky; and to the east, beyond the tawny shadows now filling the ravine, lay a ravaged width of chasms and cliffs, bounded by Makalle’s plateau – a long, grey pencil-line below the first star. As I followed the Governor’s reception party through the village I felt drunk on colour and space.
This compound is at the southern extremity of the plateau, but Ato Gabre Mariam had dismounted before we turned the last corner of the hill; it would be considered a shameful thing for him to have ridden while his guest walked. Now I am happily settled in his round ‘guest-room’ tukul, beneath a thatched roof supported by a disproportionately thick and monstrously misshapen tree-trunk. I like the ‘clothes-hangers’ here – several cow-horns embedded in the mud walls.
As I write – sitting on the mud bed, relaxed after a thorough leg-massage – my host and eight other men are squatting on hides around the fire, drinking and talking. One of the younger men – Dawit, the Governor’s nephew – was brought up in Addis Ababa, where his father is a clerk and, having been trained as a ‘Medical Officer’, was sent here last week to run the Health Centre for three years. Despite an Addis education his English is not as good as Abebe’s, and in the circumstances his lack of intelligence seems alarming. Admittedly rural medical officers receive only a rudimentary training, but Dawit’s knowledge of his subject is virtually non-existent. However, the local Health Centre is unlikely to be provided with a very demanding range of drugs, and his presence may do some good if
he can persuade serious cases to go to Aksum hospital – though not many serious cases would survive that journey.
My visit is a Christmas gift from the gods for Dawit, who has reached the extreme of boredom after a week’s exile from Addis – sans cinema, sans bars, sans nightclubs, sans everything. He views Aedat as an ultra-primitive hell-hole, from which his father was lucky enough to escape and to which he has been unlucky enough to return – at the command of a government whose orders he dare not disobey. He considers the local food, drink and accommodation repellent and he despises all the villagers, including his own relatives. I winced when he jeeringly referred to the rest of the company as ‘savages’ who were content to wear dirty clothes, sit on dirty floors and blow their noses into the fire. His whole attitude reveals a too-familiar pattern – the corruption by Western superficialities of a non-Western mind, which then quickly rejects its own traditions while remaining incapable of extracting any virtue from ours. I feel deeply sorry for Dawit and his kind, who have been seduced by a shadow and then left to rot in a cultural no-man’s-land.
Today my reorganised kit caused a little bother. Neatly packed cardboard boxes may suit me, but it suited Jock much better to have everything jumbled up in the sacks, which then settled to fit the curve of his back. Twice since lunchtime the load slipped and this worries me slightly. Jock’s manners on such occasions are perfect – he stops at once to await re-loading – but if I were alone when the sacks came adrift all the mulish politeness in the world wouldn’t enable me to put them together again.
This evening I have several nasty cuts and scratches on my arms and legs. The local vegetation brandishes a most deleterious variety of thorns, spikes, barbs and razor-edged leaves.
7 January
I had hoped to be on the brink of the Takazze Gorge by this evening, but integration went so well yesterday that no one would hear of my leaving Aedat on Christmas Day. I’ve therefore had a riotous time boozing and feasting in the homes of Ato Gabre Mariam, Abebe, Dawit and Giorgis – the local teacher – not to mention a breakfast banquet with an endearing old priest at the famous local church of Debra Ghennet.
The Governor and I set off to Mass at 6.30 a.m., preceded by my host’s eight-year-old son, proudly wearing a bandolier and carrying a rifle – from which I deduce that the ‘armed guard’ fetish is more a status symbol than a safety device. The path climbed through a dense wood of unfamiliar trees and on our way we overtook several men and women, all of whom exchanged elaborate greetings with the Governor – and questioned him about me, if their position allowed them that freedom.
This church has twice been partially destroyed – by Mohammed Gragn some 300 years ago and by the Italians some thirty years ago. Only one mural survives and the building looks more like a disused barn than a church. When we arrived Mass had begun and I stood just outside the south (women’s) door, from where I could see a group of elderly widows receiving Communion. (Because the majority of highlanders choose civil marriages they cannot receive the sacrament during the lifetime of their spouses.) This ceremony began when two white-robed priests, carrying richly-coloured silk umbrellas, emerged from the concealed sanctuary to which only clergy are admitted and stood in front of the women. Then a third priest appeared, bearing a silver cross, and as the choir began to chant the umbrella priests shook their sistra and the chief priest stepped out of the sanctuary, carrying a wooden chalice in which cross-shaped pieces of bread were dipped before being given to the communicants.
Throughout the highlands only the priests make wine and they refuse to divulge their method to any layman. In 1770 James Bruce observed crushed grapes being given to communicants on a spoon, complete with seeds, but nowadays it is likely that raisins are often used to make the sacrificial wine. It seems odd that this form of alcohol has never become popular in the highlands; vines would thrive in many regions and have long been known here – I noticed representations of grapes and their leaves on an altarstone at the base of one of Aksum’s monoliths. Possibly a lack of adequate containers is the snag, since highlanders have no casks, bottles, sealed skins or glazed pots – and wine would not long remain wine in their crude earthen jars.
When Mass was over the Governor summoned me into the church, the chief priest dispensed me from removing my boots and one of the debtaras handed me a prayer-stick – a five-foot staff, with a curved horizontal silver handle on which one can lean comfortably while taking part in the long Coptic ceremonies. We then walked around the straw-strewn outer ambulatory to a raggedly carpeted section in front of the torn sanctuary curtain, which is pulled aside at certain times during Mass so that the male congregation may see the altar. Here we paused for a few moments, because the choir – at the Governor’s request – were now chanting a special prayer for my safety in the Semiens. (This Dawit explained later, and I was touched by Ato Gabre Mariam’s so nicely expressed concern – as indeed I have often been, during the past two days, by his various gestures of friendship. I only hope the final gesture won’t be the provision of an armed guard tomorrow morning.) Then four priests stepped down into the ambulatory and performed one of the traditional religious dances. Facing each other in pairs they advanced and retreated with stylised but vigorous movements, wielding their prayer-sticks as though they were spears, while the congregation clapped their hands rhythmically and drums were beaten and bells rung and sistra shaken. Next I was shown the few Ge’ez manuscripts – inscribed on goatskin parchment, bound in wood and richly illustrated – which have survived. These were thrown in a dirty chest on the floor of the inner ambulatory and obviously no one here deserves to have the care of such precious volumes; it is revealing to contrast the neglect of these books with the reverence shown towards any volume of the Buddhist scriptures by even the least educated Tibetan monk. As we left the church I echoed Dawit’s ‘Savages!’ under my breath. People who blow their noses into the fire hardly qualify for this epithet, but people who abuse centuries-old illuminated manuscripts most certainly do.
Behind the church ramshackle buildings surround a farmyard ankle-deep in dry horse-dung and it was impossible to distinguish the priests’ quarters from the stables. The chief priest’s filthy little room is over a granary and a perilous outside flight of loose stone steps leads up to the low doorway. When I sat on the edge of the iron bed my host covered my bare knees with a length of cotton – but in such a charming way that this mark of disapproval seemed almost a compliment. He is an old man, lean and white-bearded, with fine Semitic features and bright, kind, humorous eyes. Whatever may be the general level of virtue among the Ethiopian clergy, one knew that here was a true man of God.
When Dawit had joined us we were served with a quart of talla each – at 8.30 a.m., which even by my standards is a little early. Half-an-hour later breakfast began, and continued for two hours. Everyone ate prodigious quantities of injara, various kinds of highly-spiced meat-wat, hunks of tough steak fried in rancid ghee and strips of delicious raw beef dipped in berberie paste – the highlanders’ favourite delicacy and the source of their endemic tape-worm infestations.
Christmas is not among the major Ethiopian church feasts; the main celebrations are secular and the main secular celebration is eating – I’ve consumed so much raw meat today that I should be able to bound over the Semiens like an ibex. Other delicacies included hot unleavened wholemeal bread, eaten with honey and hard-boiled eggs – an excellent combination – and a strange fruit about the size of a Swede turnip, with a skin like a lemon (but much rougher and thicker), and a smell like a lemon when cut, though the sweet, palatable flesh is hard, white and juicy. The locals eat this with salt, though I preferred it without, and the children eagerly eat the tough skin.
I have rarely seen a more gloriously situated village than this – or a more primitive one. Mercifully tin sheeting has not yet arrived and the oblong stone hovels have flat clay roofs, on which parched grass grows thickly. Apart from the central track there are no laneways. The dwellings are scattered haphaza
rdly across this rock-strewn ridge, and even where a number have been built close together no one has bothered to clear the narrow intervening space of boulders and stones. Many are now in ruins, which gives the place a post-earthquake appearance; when houses begin to collapse their owners usually choose to construct new ones, rather than to repair the old.
During the afternoon Dawit invited me to his tiny room, and when I lit a cigarette he asked if he might have one – though yesterday, in his uncle’s compound, he had given the impression of being a non-smoker. He then explained that the highlanders have such a strong religious prejudice against tobacco that when he was seen lighting a cigarette, the day after his arrival here, four youths were encouraged to stone him by their outraged elders.* However, faranj smokers are now tolerated – fortunately for me.
As Dawit and I were finishing our second round of talla Giorgis arrived and invited us to his home, where steak was being fried by his sixteen-year-old wife for the delectation of the already replete faranj. On our way we heard an uncanny noise – one prolonged, wild howl, which Giorgis said had been produced by the women of a bereaved family to inform their neighbours of a death within the compound.
Giorgis is a tall, muscular twenty-year-old, who wears threadbare Western clothes beneath his shamma, to mark his position as a teacher and a native of ‘urban’ Makalle. His home is a recently-built, high-ceilinged, one-roomed house, with two big doors which admit lots of light – and here the impression of poverty is far greater than in the average dusky tukul. This family has now been living in Aedat for six months, but their possessions are so few that the big, bleak room seems less a home than a temporary lodging. While Giorgis was fondling his eighteen-months-old daughter I noticed that already she has infected eyes. The filth of all highland toddlers, even in the Governor’s affluent compound, is shocking. Once old enough to look after themselves they make some attempt to clean their faces, but mothers never bother about this task and one is appalled by the sight of so many snotty, fly-covered noses and mouths, and encrusted, infected, fly-covered eyes.
In Ethiopia with a Mule Page 8
