In Ethiopia with a Mule

by Dervla Murphy

  During supper the boys and I argued amiably about travel. They said that they couldn’t understand anyone voluntarily living a tukul-life – and I said that I couldn’t understand anyone trekking through a country in splendid isolation from the humans who inhabit it. One has no opportunity to establish normal relations with the locals when living in a strange little tent-world of portable mod cons, where the faranjs converse in their own language while the ‘natives’ stare from a distance, being ‘observed’ with detachment and resented if they come too close. Travelling in a group has been an interesting experience, but it is not one that I would wish to extend or repeat, grateful as I am for the boys’ very generous hospitality.

  5

  Timkat and Traffic

  17 January. Derasghie

  THE PIERCING COLD kept us all in our flea-bags until 7.30 this morning, and it was 8.30 before Jock and I left the camp, led by a local who was also going to Derasghie. Last evening, as an anti-shifta precaution, Afeworq had contacted this taciturn little man – whose fair skin went curiously with Negroid features.

  Remarkably, there were no steep climbs in today’s twenty-two miles and there was only one steep descent, from the campsite to river-level. Then our path ascended the ploughed ridge diagonally, passing many giant thistles – twenty feet tall, with enormous balls hanging from their upper stalks like toys on a Christmas tree – and sometimes crossing uncultivated stretches where clumps of thyme and heather grew between outcrops of rock, or the now familiar Semien shrubs shed their small green leaves into Jock’s bucket. From the crest of this ridge we walked for hours down a slightly broken, sloping plateau, seeing occasional conspicuous groups of twisted pines. Here I got a close-up view of two magnificent Lanner Falcons, with red-brown heads, dark-grey backs and black wings; both had perched on boulders and neither moved until we were almost beside them. Apart from these the only birds I’ve noticed in the Semiens are Thick-billed Ravens – natives of Ethiopia – but the Lammergeyer (Bearded Vulture), which has a wing-span of eight to nine feet, is also quite common here.

  At about 10,000 feet the vegetation became more colourful and many yellow-flowered shrubs and enormous pinkish-purple cacti lined the path. Over the last five miles several settlements were visible in the distance and we passed one church, where my companion paused to perform the usual ritual of kissing the enclosure wall. This enclosure contained some fine trees – junipers higher than the church itself, wild fig-trees and oleasters. The practice of preserving trees only within church compounds is probably a relic of pre-Christian feeling, for trees are sacred to many of Ethiopia’s other ethnic groups – as they were in pagan Ireland.

  Foreigners seem popular in this region and everyone we met was exceptionally friendly. The normal greeting is an unsmiling bow, and should a man’s shamma be covering his head he will lower it while bowing; but here the men also shook hands and smiled warmly, including three mule-riders who respectfully dismounted to salute me in proper fashion. Today, too, I saw for the first time a highland woman on a mule – riding astride, wearing tight, ankle-length, velvet trousers beneath her skirt, and carrying a white silk umbrella. She herself didn’t greet me, but ordered her servant to do so, whereupon he prostrated himself before the bedraggled faranj and touched my battered boots with his fingertips, which he then kissed. Here umbrellas are more common than rifles and presumably they too are status symbols, since at this season there is neither rain nor heat to justify them.

  A month ago I would have laughed at my map for calling Derasghie a ‘town’, but now it seems just that to me. Amidst the straggle of tukuls and oblong mud huts there are two Muslim traders’ stalls, in which one can buy Chinese torches and batteries, Indian cotton, Polish soap, Czechoslovakian pocket-combs, kerosene and salt. There are also a primary school, a Governor’s office, a Health Centre and a Police Post – all these institutions being housed in extremely primitive buildings.

  Hordes of children greeted us by shouting ‘Faranj! Faranj! Faranj!’ – a reception which brought the law on me, so that within moments I was being marched off to the Governor’s office. When we appeared in his compound the Big Man was about to leave for Debarak, but he postponed his departure to cope with this disconcerting problem, for which convention provided no set answer. Immediately a twenty-year-old ‘Dresser’ from the Health Centre was summoned as interpreter; but unfortunately Asmare speaks minimal English and his Amharic pride led him to confuse various issues by pretending to understand much more than he did.

  The Governor demanded my non-existent travel permit and when I produced my visa instead he scrutinised it suspiciously, complained that he couldn’t read the signature and asked who had signed it. I replied ‘The Ethiopian Consul in London’, but I had to admit to not knowing the Consul’s name and my ignorance of this elementary fact seemed to confirm whatever his worst suspicions were. Yet he was not being at all unpleasant and I sensed that he was merely making a formal show of his power, as much to impress his subordinates as to awe me. However, we were now at an impasse, for, having expressed such strong disapproval of my ‘papers’, and reacted so sceptically to my improbable tale about walking from Tigre through the Semiens, he could hardly relent with dignity. I therefore decided that the moment had come for me to claim unblushingly that Leilt Aida was one of my closest friends – and at once the atmosphere changed completely and talla was brought forth.

  Inevitably, the Governor wanted to provide me with an escort, but I successfully argued that the walk to Debarak would be an Old Ladies’ Outing compared with trekking in the High Semiens. Then, as both Jock and I are in need of rest, I asked if we might have lodgings for three nights – which will give me an opportunity to see the Timkat ceremonies here on the nineteenth – and the Governor immediately told Asmare to show me to the ‘guest-room’ beside his office.

  This guest-room is more weather-proof than the average hut, as the inner walls have been well plastered with cow-dung. The builders evidently felt a feeble impulse to be ‘Western’, because two spaces have been left unplastered, to serve as windows – though these admit little light, since the roof-stakes project far out and down to form a verandah. (This common device can be a danger to the unwary, especially after dark, as the sharp stakes are often at eye-level.) There is no furniture, the tin door won’t shut and when I arrived the uneven mud floor was thinly covered with straw: but before his departure the Governor ordered a ‘carpet’ of freshly-cut blue-gum branches.

  18 January

  I slept well last night. We are still in the Semiens, at 10,200 feet, but the penetrating frosts of the High Semiens have been left behind.

  At 7.30 Asmare guided me to Derasghie Mariam, the most important of the local churches. It is, of course, famous – by now I’ve realised that to the locals every highland parish church is famous – and Asmare proudly informed me that the Emperor Theodore was crowned within its sanctuary. Its murals are the finest I’ve yet seen, but circumstances were against any leisurely enjoyment of them. Protective sheets of dirty cotton hang from ceiling to floor and these had to be lifted aside, with difficulty, by Asmare – using a long pole – while a group of priests and debtaras lurked in the background, looking predatory. The light was poor, too, though debtaras opened various twenty-foot-high doors; but for all that I greatly appreciated what I could see of these gay or bloodthirsty saints. It is clear that at some period Derasghie produced – or attracted – artists whose imagination and sense of humour could not be repressed by ecclesiastical conventions.

  The clergy here are not very amiable. At the enclosure gate-house, where a score of blind and maimed were patiently awaiting alms, three priests objected to my entering (though I was decently attired) and they only relented on hearing Asmare mention the magic name of Leilt Aida. Then, when we were leaving, I gave the chief priest a dollar – but he looked at it with angry disdain and aggressively demanded five dollars. So I snatched the note off his open palm and gave it to the beggars instead. Later this morning a M
uslim trader invited me into his stall for a glass of tea, and as I was enjoying this rare luxury another Muslim politely asked if I would sell him a cigarette for twopence. It was difficult to persuade him to accept one as a gift, and I couldn’t help contrasting his attitude with that of the local priests.

  Here one gets a most exhilarating sense of space, for Derasghie is on a plateau so vast that mountains are visible only in the far distance to east and west – where their crests appear just above the edges of the plain.

  I spent the afternoon wandering through nearby fields, tenaciously attended by children. Everywhere barley was being harvested and I noticed that wild oats were also being threshed and then winnowed from the barley for storage in separate containers.*

  This evening the Timkat ceremonies began at sunset. Timkat commemorates the baptism of Christ – the word Timkat means baptism – and it is one of the three most important Ethiopian church festivals. (The other two are Easter and Maskal, which is held in September to commemorate the finding of the true Cross by Empress Helena.) At this time are baptised the children of syphilitic mothers, and when the priests have blessed a pool convenient to the church the devout bathe in this sanctified water. The ceremonies begin on the eve of the festival, when the Tabot, representing the Ark of the Covenant, is carried to a tent – preferably near a stream – where Mass will be celebrated early next morning.*

  Perhaps because of my disagreement with the clergy at Derasghie Mariam, Asmare brought me this evening to a smaller church nearer the town. We were accompanied on our way by scores of men, women and children – most of the children in new clothes and all the adults in clean shammas. Soon after our arrival within the enclosure a procession left the church, preceded by a gun-man and led by an elderly priest draped in tattered, gaily-coloured silken robes and bearing on his head the Tabot, hidden beneath a grubby, gold-embroidered, waist-length cloak. Beside him walked another priest, holding over the Tabot a variously-coloured, silver-spangled silk umbrella, and close behind walked two more priests, also draped in gay silken rags. The procession was completed by two drummer debtaras, dressed in lay clothes, and as it wound its dishevelled way down a steep slope it was followed by scores of chanting men, ululating women and silent children – who were more interested in the faranj than in the Tabot.

  At first the men had been chanting slowly, but soon their rhythm quickened and they broke up into three groups, forming circles of wild dancers who leaped high in the air every other moment while brandishing their dulas as though they were spears. Frequent whoopings and hand-clappings accompanied the leapings and dula-wavings and clearly everyone was having a wonderful time. Meanwhile the ululating women remained close to the Tabot, and when the procession reached the tent everyone was quiet for a moment, and all dulas were thrown to the ground as the Chief Priest prayed and the men bent forward, eyes cast down, while chanting their responses.

  After the Tabot had disappeared a strip of matting was laid on the ploughed earth for the local VIPs and a debtara invited me to take a seat. Then a priest came from the tent, carrying a basket of hot, blessed dabo, and having given the first piece to the faranj he distributed the rest amongst the general public – who each reverently kissed their hunk before eating it.

  By now the air was cold and as we hurried home the trees on the church hill were standing out blackly against a blood-orange western sky, and the distant mountain crests to the east were a delicate pink-mauve-blue, and all around us the last of the sunset lay on the crackling barley stubble in a strange, faint, red-gold haze.

  19 January

  I spent the early morning at the scene of yesterday’s ceremonies, watching the faithful being sprinkled with blessed water as the sun rose. Then Asmare reappeared to accompany me to today’s main festivities, in a long, level field some two miles from Derasghie Mariam. As we arrived white-clad crowds were converging on the Tabot tent and scores of shouting horsemen could be seen galloping to and fro across the wide grasslands – including many little boys riding bareback at top speed with great skill. Today the women looked particularly animated, for Timkat frees them of all domestic responsibilities. Many young wives were eyeing the horsemen boldly, and by now both they and their husbands are probably enjoying temporary changes of partners.

  Timkat is also one of the occasions when unmarried girls dress in their finest clothes and groom their hair meticulously, for unmarried youths often avail themselves of this appearance of virgins in public to choose an attractive mate. The youth will then ask his father to begin negotiations with the girl’s father – though he can never be sure either of his father’s cooperation or of the negotiations proceeding satisfactorily. There can be no question of marrying without paternal consent. To do so would invite a solemn cursing and permanent disinheritance, since marriages are arranged to link families rather than individuals. However, if a young couple find each other incompatible discreet unfaithfulness is overlooked and divorce is easy. Yet an unmarried girl is constantly chaperoned, and in some homes she is even forbidden to do strenuous jobs lest her hymen should be accidentally ruptured. On the other hand, a boy who is still virgin at eighteen or nineteen will be jeered at by his contemporaries and called ‘silb’ (‘castrated one’); so dissatisfied young wives have a wide choice of lovers.

  At eleven o’clock a tiny boy in a spotless white tunic left the tent ringing a large bronze bell and followed by the inevitable gun-man. Then appeared a handsome young priest, robed in black and scarlet silk and wearing a golden crown surmounted by a silver cross. He was followed by the Tabot itself, invisible beneath red velvet on the head of an elderly priest clad in gold, purple and crimson vestments and walking beneath the shade of a silver-spangled blue, yellow, red and green silk umbrella – borne by a young priest. Next came a second crowned priest, two debtaras beating enormous gold and silver drums and an old priest swinging an empty silver censer and holding aloft a large, crudely-worked silver and gold cross. The procession was completed by seventeen priests from other churches, carrying prayer-sticks and sistra and wearing heavy black, white or navy-blue woollen cloaks.

  The laity’s progress was less orderly. Today the young men were in fine ‘war-dance’ form and many leaping, whooping groups preceded, accompanied and followed the procession. Shouting horsemen cantered up and down, scores of middle-aged men walked beside the priests, continuously singing ‘haaa-hooo, haaa-hooo’ in low-pitched voices, the ululating women kept abreast of the Tabot, and small boys rode their ponies like gay demons – racing to the front, then skilfully wheeling round and racing to the back, proudly flourishing their miniature dulas as though they were spears.

  Half-way to the church the procession halted beside a small tent, and the Tabot-laden priest disappeared to drink talla. Then another priest recited a long prayer and all the cloaked clergy chanted happily, some of them performing a slow, graceful dance while others – laying aside their prayer-sticks and sistra – clapped rhythmically and the women ululated non-stop and the young men bounded joyously.

  During this pause the horsemen began to race seriously, providing an exciting spectacle as they frenziedly urged their fast, light mounts over the smooth turf.*A ‘spear’-throwing competition with long, pointed sticks was part of the game, and one could see that this warrior-art is still very much alive, even among the younger, rifle-nurtured generation.

  Sitting on a boulder – watching the dancing priests and the leaping laymen and the galloping spear-throwers, and listening to drums, bells, sistra, chantings, ululations and pounding hoofs – I felt, not for the first time, an uncomfortable reaction to Ethiopian Christianity. To me there is something false about it, and by now this feeling has given me a guilt-complex, since ignorance of the Ethiopian Church should prevent me from passing judgement on it. Yet I have observed other incomprehensible religious rites – Muslim, Buddhist and Hindu – without ever experiencing this sense of something dead, or atrophied, or unborn: I don’t quite know which word fits. My reaction has nothing to do
with the display of outward reverence – which may be governed by the superficial customs and racial temperament of a particular crowd – but it has everything to do with the atmosphere that a crowd evokes at a religious ceremony. Here I am aware of no spiritual vitality. It seems that a sacred ceremony is simply providing an excuse for colourful processing, prolonged singing and dancing, a day off work and lots of extra food, alchohol and love-making. All of which is good for the morale of a hard-working community, and might well be a means of expressing sincere religious feeling; but in this context both the genuine gaiety and the ritual gestures of devotion seem quite unrelated to true worship.

  The midday sun was very hot as we started to climb the rock-strewn church hill, yet within the enclosure the tireless young men resumed their leapings and whoopings, which contrasted curiously with the formal, stately movements of the nearby dancing priests. Half-an-hour later the Tabot was carried once around the church, before being accompanied into the sanctuary by the clergy; but the lay dancers remained without, bounding up as though on springs, then squatting for an instant – leaning on their dulas – then bounding again and re-bounding, while their shouts grew louder and wilder and sweat glistened on their tense faces and their eyes gleamed with some mass emotion that may possibly have been religious fervour.

  I was invited to lunch by a relative of Asmare’s, whose spacious tukul was crowded with guests. When we arrived my host’s mother sent a granddaughter to her own tukul to fetch araki in honour of the faranj, and soon the girl returned with six clean liqueur glasses and a decanter of colourless spirit. Araki is much the same as Nepalese rakshi and Tibetan arak (this Arabic word has travelled far!), but it has a peculiar flavour of its own, rather like smoky anice. It also has a peculiar potency of its own and as I returned to my room the fields seemed much more uneven than they had been earlier.