In Ethiopia with a Mule

by Dervla Murphy

For the next half-hour our track wound through low hills covered in high, burnt-gold grass and dotted with baobab trees. These monstrous growths have smooth grey trunks some ten yards in circumference – though they are no more than twenty feet tall – and short, thick, leafless branches sprout from their tops only, making them look like repulsive prehistoric beasts. After three weeks at 8,000 feet the thick, hot air of the gorge oppressed me like an invisible substance as I tottered along amidst my little forest of rifles, vaguely noticing many birds and shrubs that one never sees on the highlands.

  We had a moment of mild drama at the point where our path went through a narrow gap between two hills and brought us at last within sight of the river. Here the leader stopped abruptly and yelled ‘Shifta!’ as he bent to pick up a ragged shamma from the side of the path. The cotton cloak was stained with dried blood and had been torn by three bullet holes, and the stony ground nearby was also blood-stained. However, in a region where guns are so common, and many men are excessively prone to quarrelling, a little blood and a few bullet holes seem inconclusive evidence of shifta activity.

  At this season the sluggish Takazze is only two feet deep and twenty yards wide, though from bank to bank across its sandy bed is a 200-yard walk. On the southern side we rested for half-an-hour, beneath an enormous wild fig-tree, and the men washed all over – in two shifts, lest the Enemy should take us unawares. Meanwhile the unfortunate animals, having drunk deep, were pathetically seeking non-existent food amidst a cruelly hot wilderness of boulders. Each of their loads had slipped forward on to their necks at least twice during the descent, and by now they must have been fancying themselves in some sort of equine Hades.

  As I sat smoking irreligiously, with my feet in the river, I became aware that this silent, motionless gorge has a curiously unquiet atmosphere. It is wide and bright and full of colour – green river, red-gold grasslands, silver sand, blue sky – yet such a strange uneasiness pervades it that I no longer wondered at the highlanders’ aversion to the place.

  The second half of the marathon began with an enervating two-mile walk up a dry, rocky, sun-stricken river bed. Then we started our four-hour climb – a relentless ascent up slopes of scorched turf as slippery as ice, leading to slopes of shale so steep that for every three steps forward one slid two steps back, leading to a thousand-foot stairway of black lava rock on which one’s leg-muscles seemed to burn with exhaustion while one’s lungs ached at every breath. But all the time it was getting cooler, and the incomparable joy of ‘going higher’ was sustaining me.

  At this stage all the barriers went down between my escort and myself. In the gorge they had been perceptibly less surly – even showing concern for my new crop of foot blisters – and now they were displaying a touchingly affectionate respect. The explanation was obvious. When tackling such a climb one has to go at one’s natural pace – to go either more quickly or more slowly adds to the strain – and, since my natural pace was somewhat faster than their own, my companions imagined me to be a superwoman of sorts. To the highlanders physical courage, or skill, or endurance are such important qualities that by inadvertently beating them to a mountain-top I had become an honoured guest instead of a damn nuisance.

  When at last we reached level ground I almost wept with relief to see our path continuing level for a mile or so, curving around the mountain beneath a 300-foot wall of rock. This escarpment was so sheer that I decided we must have got to the end of the day’s climb, as not even a highlander would attempt it; so I went striding ahead – tiredness forgotten – thinking thirstily of talla. Then an urgent shout checked me – and I saw my companions going up the escarpment like flies. For a moment I considered accompanying the boys, who were taking Jock and their donkeys a long way round; but not knowing how long that way might be I chose the short cut and eventually pulled myself on to the amba feeling proud of my new-found ability to rock-climb.

  By now my escort were being far too zealous about their reluctantly-assumed responsibility. Four gunmen followed me when I hurried elatedly to the tip of an ‘aerial peninsula’, from which I could gaze down on the vast panorama that spread south and east beneath a still vaster sunset glow. Here I wanted to sit alone, and gaze and gaze – but soon I was being hustled towards the settlement. Yet I had had time to feel both awed and triumphant as I traced the faint thread of our path leading out of the again invisible gorge and ascending from mountain-top to mountain-top – with never a descent, for these mountains form a giant’s stairway to the amba.

  This plateau is littered with stones the size of a man’s head and I noticed that teff had recently been harvested between them; perhaps the ground is not cleared on these exposed heights because large stones curtail erosion. Archaeologists might find something of interest here, as the amba is also littered with small stones of every conceivable texture, colour and shape; when the last horizontal shafts of light fell across the flatness it seemed that we were walking through some fabulous treasure-trove.

  The boys, Jock and the donkeys rejoined us near the settlement, where there was a meagre straggle of two-foot high bushes. I was needing the hospitality of some bushes, but again my obsessively loyal quartet of gunmen followed me, and stood no more than a yard away with their backs discreetly turned and their rifles at the ready – an apparently absurd precaution on this domesticated plateau.

  However, I began to see the point a moment later, when four armed men emerged from the settlement and came towards us through the bronze afterglow, shouting suspicious enquiries. Undoubtedly ‘the natives were hostile’ – not to me in particular, but to all of us. Our leader quickly produced Dawit’s grandfather’s chit – which he had been carrying wrapped in a rag in his pocket – and pretended to read it, though he is illiterate. But this achieved nothing and I realised that the situation was not being helped by neither side knowing the other’s language. (Though Tigrinya and Amharinya both derive from Ge’ez they are as different as Italian and Spanish.) Then the gallant little Muslim traders, who are bilingual, attempted to act as interpreters – and for some reason the effect was disastrous. Suddenly one of the villagers picked up a sharp stone, held it threateningly and said ‘Hid!’ – an insulting expletive universally understood in the highlands and usually heard when dogs are being driven out of tukuls. Our leader was standing beside me and at this I saw his hands tighten angrily on his rifle. But either regard for my safety or an untypical prudence restrained him, and turning abruptly away he led us off across the plateau towards the south.

  At once the boys hurried to his side and pointed ahead to a dark mountain mass that rose from the edge of the amba. I couldn’t guess what was being planned, but later it transpired that we had been invited to accompany them to the safety of this compound, where they have now delivered their loads of salt. We began to climb the steep, newly-ploughed mountainside in starry darkness, and when I switched on my torch its miraculous brilliance caused much delighted astonishment. It was strange to remember that less than twelve hours ago these men and I had been so mutually distrustful.

  This family is Tigrean and – though I would have thought the arrival of fifteen unexpected guests a little disconcerting – our host has given us the warmest of welcomes. Perhaps he is glad to be again among a gathering of his own people. There are five stone huts in the compound, so primitively built that one could easily pass them by and never suspect that humans dwelt within. The flat mud roofs are on a level with my head, but I haven’t seen the interiors because highlanders prefer not to admit guests to the family huts, if any alternative accommodation is available, and on arrival we were led to this cattle-shelter. The shelter’s inner wall is part of a hut wall and the outer is a row of stakes interwoven with brushwood; there are no gable walls and the roof is also of stakes, on which fodder straw is stored. The enclosure measures about twenty yards by ten and soon two fires had been lit on the earthen floor – despite the proximity of so much brushwood and straw. Then came talla, and in my honour the chief family heirloom was
brought forth – a large, green, cut-glass tumbler, thick with the talla-scum of decades. Our host is a lively, lovable old man, unusually fluent in sign-language, and he conveyed that he had killed many Italians in his day, incidentally securing this tumbler as loot. Fortunately for his susceptibilities I am too thirsty this evening to be deterred by any degree of filth.

  By nine o’clock all fifteen of us – and our host and his two eldest sons – were being served with a massive meal of injara and mutton-wat; and the faranj was also given a bowl of curds. While we were eating, a tall, slim youth stood motionless in the centre of the floor, draped in a knee-length garment and holding aloft a flaming brand; he looked movingly handsome, his expression grave and his shapely head silhouetted against the night. But the illumination he provided was a little too strong, for it is always preferable to eat highland meals in a detail-obscuring gloom. Here there are no tin ladles, so wat is served by soaking pieces of injara in the soup, quickly slopping them down on the injara-table and adding a few fistfuls of chopped meat; and our hostess blew her nose through her fingers before breaking the injara for our second helping – which rather counteracted my earlier observation that all highlanders wash their hands before meals.

  10 January. Another Cattle Shelter on a Mountainside

  This has been a completely crazy day, during which I only covered eight miles and never knew from hour to hour who was deciding what about the faranj. To a normally decisive European life seems oddly unreal when all one’s actions are being circumscribed by the inexplicable whims of people with whom no communication is possible.

  Last night my escort solemnly handed over to our host the chit dictated by Dawit’s grandfather. This scruffy scrap of paper has by now acquired tremendous significance; apparently acceptance of it symbolises the assumption of all responsibility for my safety. Then, at 5 a.m., the Tigreans left for home, to escape the noon heat of the gorge. (Highlanders detest tropical heat even more than I do.) I heard them preparing to depart and longed to be able to show gratitude effectively; but money has little value in this region, where most goods are bartered, so last evening I distributed matches, combs, mirrors and the promised malaria tablets – which were instantly and gleefully swallowed, despite Dawit’s lecture on using them as cures rather than as prophylactics. These seemingly inadequate gifts gave immense pleasure to the men, who sat gazing entranced at their own reflections and soon broke most of the combs in their fuzzy hair.

  At 6.30 I heard the family stirring, crawled out of my fleabag, packed up rapidly and, when my host appeared, asked him to have Jock loaded. But he shook his head emphatically, sighed heavily, smiled reassuringly, indicated that I was to seat myself on the pack-saddle and left the compound to attend to his morning duties at a hygienically remote point on the mountainside.

  For the next two hours I wandered around nearby, enjoying the swiftly changing morning colours, or sat in the shelter fraternising wordlessly with innumerable children and adolescents. Last night these youngsters were too scared to approach within yards of me, but this morning, overcoming their timidity, they edged closer and closer to the Strange Being – and eventually one little girl summoned enough courage to determine the creature’s sex by poking at its chest. On discovering that breasts existed beneath my loose shirt this brave explorer rushed off to find her mother, screaming ‘Set nat! Set nat!’ (It’s a woman!) However, her companions could not easily credit this improbability so now, emboldened by her example, they proceeded to remove my shirt – which led to further exclamations of wonder when they saw the colour of untanned faranj skin.

  At 8.30 my host and I breakfasted together off smoke-flavoured curds and fresh, pale injara – which is without the bitterness of the darker variety that goes with wat. Then, an hour later, I saw to my relief that Jock was being loaded, and at 9.45 he was led out of the compound by a little boy and I was escorted by my host, and two other greybeards, on to the path for the Semiens. A short, steep climb brought us to a narrow, level ridge – with profound chasms on either side – that led to an extraordinary square mountain immediately ahead. At the foot of this obstacle, hardly two miles from the compound, we stopped suddenly, and everyone sat beneath a tree in a pleasantly cool breeze, and a lengthy discussion took place between the grey-beards. Meanwhile nine other men, including a fourth grey-beard with a rifle, were converging upon the tree from various unlikely directions; and when all had assembled the momentous chit was passed from hand to hand and looked at every way up and feelingly discussed – the only snag was that nobody could actually read it. Then a tall, handsome young man emerged from the depths of the eastern gorge. His alert manner distinguished him from the average peasant and he could read, if slowly and unsurely, so he declaimed the contents of the chit to the assembly. Another vigorous and verbose debate followed, after which my host eloquently dictated his own chit to the young man – who used the faranj’s pen and paper, watched by an assembly now awed to breathlessness. (As I should know, few things fascinate these highlanders as much as the act of writing.)

  All this took one and a half hours, during which time I sat philosophically contemplating the everlasting hills and Jock munched elevenses amongst the scrub. Our positions were very similar today – neither of us knowing the reason why, and both of us waiting patiently to be escorted or driven over an indefinite distance to an uncertain destination.

  At midday the party broke up, after elaborate farewells all round. The armed grey-beard turned south, leading Jock; I followed meekly and the rest of the grey-beard corps brought up the rear. Our path soon swung around to the golden-grassed eastern flank of the square mountain and ran level for a mile or so, with a spectacular thousand-foot rock wall directly above us and a fearsome drop directly below. Though this path is much used no one does anything to maintain it; at present it is merely dangerous, but during the rains it must be impassable.

  Not the least exciting thing about these highlands is their unpredictability: suddenly our path vanished on the brink of a valley, leaving us to make our own way down a steep slope of loose grey soil, scattered with deceptive boulders that looked firm but shifted nerve-rackingly when stepped on. Then we followed a dried-up water-course for half-an-hour, climbed a slight rise and saw a compound in the near distance, solitary amidst a flat, arid waste. Despite the altitude it was brutally hot in this enclosed valley and already my companions were wilting. When we reached the compound they collapsed, groaning with relief, in the shade of a cattle-shelter – and called loudly for the man of the house, who was evidently a friend. He at once spread cow-hide seats, shouted to his wife to bring talla and unloaded Jock – to my dismay and Jock’s delight. It was now 2 p.m. and there we sat for the next two and a half hours, being served with very gritty injara and very hot bean-wat at 3.15 – by which time I had drunk so much talla that I was half-asleep. Our youngish host, who looked ominously emaciated, coughed and spat continually and to honour the guest insisted on always refilling my wooden tankard from his own, instead of direct from the jar. Luckily TB was endemic among Irish cattle during my childhood, so I probably have a fair immunity. Our kindly, haggard hostess seemed equally tubercular, as did the coughing adolescent girls who peeped at me around corners from time to time and then hastily withdrew, giggling nervously, if I caught their eye. This was the poorest compound I have yet visited; everyone looked seriously undernourished.

  At 4.30, when the men returned from their work in the fields, another chit-palaver began and by the time it had ended shadows were cooling the valley. Then Jock was reloaded, the two precious chits were entrusted to four young men – one of whom borrowed our host’s rifle – the grey-beards gave me their blessing and I set wonderingly off down the valley with my new escort.

  A brisk forty-minute walk over level ploughland and a tough twenty-minute climb brought us within sight of this settlement – and within sound of the giant curs who were snarling a savage unwelcome. My companions signed me to sit on a boulder, while they negotiated with the headm
an, and soon several men had collected to stare at me expressionlessly, and a few little children had come surprisingly close – but when I stood up to fetch my jacket they fled in real terror, the tiniest ones bursting into tears. Just so might European children have behaved fifty years ago had an African appeared in their village.

  From where I was sitting – quarter-way up a slope at the narrow western end of the valley – royal-blue mountain masses seemed almost within touching distance on three sides. And the long, angular mass to the south, beyond the hidden ravine of the Ataba, was the northernmost fortification of the Semiens.

  Stars were burning above the heights when the headman came to welcome me; like so many of his race and generation he is splendidly handsome – iron-grey hair goes well with mahogany skin, clean-cut nostrils and deep-set eyes. As he conducted me into his cattle-shelter-cum-guest-room I reflected that one of the strangest paradoxes of highland life is the extraordinary assurance and dignity – of a particular quality not found at all levels in European societies – which distinguishes so many of these peasants. Even in such a remote region as this, and when confronted with such a disquieting phenomenon as myself, their innate courtesy rarely fails them. Yet in many ways they are ignorant, treacherous and cruel to a degree – which has led some foreigners to dismiss their more attractive aspect as a form of deceit, or at best a meaningless routine of etiquette. But to me the two aspects, however contradictory, seem equally genuine.

  This shelter is much like last night’s, and the supper ritual was as usual – except that our host broke off some pieces of injara before we started and said a prayer commemorating the Last Supper while presenting them to his guests. As always children stood silently in the background, waiting for the adults to finish. Sometimes boys join the circle around the fire while food is being prepared, though they never speak and are required to remain standing in the presence of guests. When the meal is served they withdraw and after the adults have eaten the left-overs are heaped on one wicker tray and passed back – and occasionally, as a mark of affection, an adult will push a handful of food into a favourite child’s mouth, receiving a low bow as thanks.