In Ethiopia with a Mule

by Dervla Murphy

  At nine o’clock I set off, with two schoolboys as guides, and four hours’ walking took us to Bethlehem. All the ascents were steep and at every breath my lungs felt as though they were being simultaneously compressed by some instrument of torture and scraped with sandpaper. I had brought my spare shirt to drape over my head and neck – a precaution I should have taken yesterday – but by 10.30 kind clouds had half covered the sky.

  Part of this walk was through ‘conventional’ mountain scenery that might have been in the Himalayan foothills, but most of it was across roughly beautiful ridges – some thickly forested, some ploughed, some grassy – and from each crest wild ranges of dusky-blue mountains were visible against the horizon.

  Bethlehem is a big settlement on a high spur. When we arrived a service was being held, to celebrate one of the innumerable Coptic feasts in honour of Mariam, and from without the enclosure we could hear splendid chanting and the beating of many drums and the clicking of many sistra. I felt reluctant to distract the faithful by appearing during the service, but my guides hurried me in, and at once I was surrounded by the entire congregation and welcomed by several polite, unpredatory priests.

  At first sight Bethlehem’s church looks like any other circular highland church. To quote from Thomas Pakenham: ‘The tukul church was simply a rude veneer overlying an older church. Preserved inside the circular mud walls and under the conical roof was a rectangular mediaeval church of the most exciting design: the vast stumpy timbers of the doorways, and the pink stone walls polished like porphyry were finer of their sort than any yet known … I had … discovered an entirely unknown mediaeval church of the most dramatically exciting style.’

  At that time (eleven years ago) ‘there were many eighteenth-century frescoes painted on linen hangings superimposed on the pink stones of the west facade’. Now there are only marks on the walls, indicating where these frescoes once hung. The priests – assuming that I had come specially to look at the paintings – released a cataract of apologetic explanations, which conveyed nothing whatever to me. In fact I was not particularly disappointed, for the church itself had made my painful detour seem well worth while.

  At the end of the service my guides and I were invited to accompany the priests, the village elders and the boy deacons to a broad ledge below the enclosure, where we sat under giant wild fig-trees that looked as old as the world, and ate blessed hot dabo and drank thick grey-green talla from huge, yellow-brown gourds.

  Beneath us a profound semicircular gorge separated our mountain from the blue-green-ochre slopes of its neighbours – and to all this wild glory cloud shadows ceaselessly brought subtle changes.

  Soon a deacon came down the path carrying on his head a goatskin full of roast atar, and when the peas had been poured on to wicker platters these were laid within reach of every little group. Meanwhile other deacons were refilling gourds, fetching fresh pots of talla and distributing second rounds of dabo; and the priests and elders were discussing their own affairs, having lost interest in me as a faranj with characteristic rapidity. As a guest, however, I was not neglected: the chief priest repeatedly used his fly-whisk for my benefit and never allowed my gourd to be empty of talla or my fist of dabo. And here I felt such a deep contentment that this became – all unexpectedly – one of my happiest hours in these highlands.

  There are two phases of enjoyment in journeying through an unknown country – the eager phase of wondering interest in every detail, and the relaxed phase when one feels no longer an observer of the exotic, but a participator in the rhythm of daily life. Now I am at ease among the highlanders, for wherever I go, in this static, stylised society, everything seems familiar. Not only the graceful formalities – significant though minute – but the long, lean faces and the clear brown eyes, the way men flick atar from palm to mouth, the movement of settling shammas about their bodies when they sit, their stance as they stand and talk, leaning their hands on the ends of a dula that rests across their shoulders, the harsh, staccato language, the expressive gesticulations, the sudden bursts of apparent anger that can quickly change to laughter. All this makes up a world which only two months ago seemed puzzling, amusing and sometimes a little frightening, yet which now seems as normal as my own far world away to the north.

  Soon after we left Bethlehem it rained heavily for about twenty minutes. At sunset we were crossing the wide plain that lies below Sali and here the scene was so autumnal that it reminded me of Ireland in late September: above a gold-brown ridge lay sombre, torn clouds, against a blue-green horizon, and the cold wind was gusty.

  This evening the headman and his wife called to see me, bringing another kettle of talla. All the usual questions were asked and my answers provoked the usual reactions. It really distresses the highlanders to hear that I have no parents, brothers, sisters, husband or children. Some of the women almost weep in sympathy and an Amharic proverb is often quoted: ‘It is better to be unborn than to be alone.’

  1 March. A Village on an Amba

  I felt better this morning, despite a restless night of wheezing. When we left Sali at 7.30 the sky was grey and for four hours we were climbing gradually across still, sunless widths of ploughland and moorland. From the edge of this plateau I saw a little town which seemed hardly twenty minutes walk away; but below the plateau there were so many deep chasms to be negotiated that it was one o’clock before we reached Nefas Moja.

  At a tej-beit a kind woman filled me with talla, tej and tea, but would accept no payment. When we continued the sun was out, so I tied my spare shirt round my head. We were now back in ‘precipitous’ country, and during one nightmare descent poor Jock almost lost his footing on a narrow path overhanging a sheer drop of at least seven hundred feet. Then the track levelled out and for six miles wound round the flanks of forested mountains, with deep, golden valleys on our left, an upheaval of blue ranges beyond them and no settlements visible.

  Soon we were overtaken by two men driving a donkey. The elder, aged about fifty, was small, slim and one-eyed – and I disliked the look in that one eye. The other, aged about twenty, was burly and thick-lipped, and at once he took Jock’s halter and urged me to walk on ahead. This is a common highland courtesy, but it was clear that my present companions were not being inspired by good manners. However, I feigned friendliness and walked beside the older man, behind Jock, watching my load. I felt so uneasy that had we met travellers going towards Nefas Moja I would have returned to the town with them.

  Then my one-eyed companion began to beg whiningly for clothes and medicines. When I denied having either his whining changed to truculence and he ran ahead, prodded the sacks and demanded to be told what was in them. As I replied ‘Faranj injara’ the young man turned suddenly and asked where my money was. I said that I had no money, whereupon both laughed unpleasantly and remarked that every faranj has much money. For a few moments they stood discussing the situation sotto voce, and then they invited me, with artificial cordiality, to spend the night at their settlement. Obviously they feared to unload Jock on a main track and to gain time I accepted their invitation.

  The next fifty minutes felt like as many hours. Often I glanced back to see if anyone was overtaking us; at every turn of the path I looked hopefully for someone ahead or for signs of a settlement, and all the time I was listening for the calls of shepherds or ploughmen – but these mountains were too thickly forested to be grazed or cultivated. As I was considering asserting myself before we reached the settlement, where everyone would be likely to support their relatives against me, the path turned another corner and I saw a man and woman ahead, walking very slowly. Grabbing the halter I ran as fast as Jock would trot and we overtook them just where a faint path branched off towards my companions’ settlement.

  The couple had been walking slowly because the woman was ill; her eyes were glazed with pain and she scarcely noticed me. Both husband and wife were, I should think in their forties, and the man, too, looked unwell. He stared at me blankly when I offered him
Jock’s halter, pointed ahead and emphatically repeated, ‘Debre Zeit! Debre Zeit!’ Then the two toughs caught us up and his expression became uneasy as they began to talk angrily, pointing first to Jock and then towards their settlement, high above the track. They were claiming to have been put in charge of me by the local Governor, and my friend seemed a person of minimal intelligence who only wanted to keep clear of the situation. Making a gesture of indifference he turned away, beckoning his wife to follow. I despairingly pulled out my purse, thrust a dollar into his right hand and the halter into his left, and repeated pleadingly ‘Debre Zeit!’ He gazed for a moment at the money, frowned and returned it – but to my astonished relief he retained the halter, suddenly shook his dula at the toughs with unexpected vigour, and quickly led Jock down the main track. Strolling nonchalantly after him, I looked back and saw the toughs climbing towards their settlement, still glancing covetously in our direction. It is most unlikely that they would have harmed me, but in this country one never quite knows what might be regarded as a sufficient motive for murder.

  At a small village I said grateful goodbyes to the pathetic couple. Here we were back in a region of overwhelming heights and depths, of symmetrical ambas, sheer escarpments and grotesquely eroded peaks. As the afternoon advanced the valleys were filled with a wonderful light, like pale blue smoke, through which I could see expanses of rose-coloured earth glowing on steep slopes above green-gold forests.

  Near the base of the gruelling escarpment below this plateau we met a handsome young gunman who claimed to be ‘the Police’. I knew that he was lying, and I disliked his plausible manner and mistrusted his speculative glances towards Jock’s load, but as my knee was now throbbing again it helped to have someone to show us the easiest way up the escarpment and when we reached this settlement everyone looked so surly that I chose the devil I knew slightly and accepted the youth’s invitation to sleep within his compound.

  My host’s family consists of his mother, a child-wife and two other women, and the atmosphere in this tukul is unique. All the time I am being laughed at unkindly – a discourtesy I wouldn’t have thought possible among Ethiopian highlanders – and payment in advance has been demanded for every glass of talla I’ve drunk, for my injara and berberie paste and for Jock’s fodder.

  As I write, injara is being cooked beside me. The batter is poured on to a flat iron skillet from an earthen jar (in which it has been fermenting for three or four days) and is then covered with a conical pottery lid. A round takes hardly five minutes to cook, over a hot wood fire, and when the housewife has skilfully slid it on to the injara-stand she wipes the skillet thoroughly with a filthy rag soaked in vegetable oil, and starts again. Injara jars are never washed so scraps of stale dough speed the fermentation of each fresh mixture.

  Today I noticed some tukuls solidly built of stone and a few men wearing brown, or brown and black check blankets instead of shammas. These reminded me of the shepherds’ blankets in the Kangra Valley in northern India, though here the workmanship is much inferior to anything one sees in Asia.

  Now I’m going to take my flea-bag out to the smooth turf of the compound and sleep beneath cool, brilliant stars; but because of the ferocity of the local hyenas Jock is being stabled in the tukul.

  2 March. A Settlement on a Hillside

  This morning my host woke me before it was light and seemed most anxious to see our backs, though highland hosts usually try to delay a guest’s departure. He had already brought out my kit from the tukul and was attempting to load Jock but could make no sense of the Italian saddle. He had tied the sacks, which I left open last night, and when he saw me untying one of them, to insert my flea-bag and Huskies, he became abusive. Investigating, I saw that he had stolen my tin-box of coins and everything else had been examined, though nothing else was missing. Now he was standing over me, scowling, and when I stood up he poked me roughly with his rifle and told me to load quickly and go. His fear suggested that by reporting to the headman I could recover my money, but remembering the unfriendly glares when we arrived last evening I decided to ignore the theft. This incident was another illustration of the average highlanders’ lack of intelligence. Had my host behaved normally this morning I would never have thought of checking my possessions before leaving.

  As we were walking across the table-flat plateau, towards a lemon-streaked, red-flecked east, I heard someone yelling ‘Faranj!’ Faranj!’ and looked round to see a young couple with three small children running to overtake us. They were going to visit relatives at Debre Zeit – twelve miles away, at the end of the plateau – and the father asked if their sickly five-year-old boy might ride on top of my load. Already the child was whimpering, so I could hardly say ‘no’, and he beamed delightedly when lifted on to the sacks. His eight-year-old sister walked sturdily with the adults, but his three-year-old brother rode all the way on Father’s shoulders.

  For six miles our path ran level over parched grassland. Then it switchbacked through scrub – where baboons barked at us, and two hyenas went slinking into the bushes at our approach – and at 9.45 we saw the blue-gums of Debre Zeit against the horizon. I stopped briefly for talla at my companions’ destination, and then several boys guided me to the edge of the plateau and pointed out the downward path – a narrow, rocky stairway of blood-chilling instability.

  I paused here, and looking north saw one massive square mountain, towering above scores of other blue giants. Undoubtedly this was Abuna Josef (13,747 feet), which overlooks Lalibela – and when without map or compass it is reassuring to have such a conspicuous landmark. Then I gazed down at the intervening chaos of mountains and gorges, and remembered that somewhere among them, hidden deep, the tortuous Takazze Gorge was waiting to renew our acquaintance. There are two special moments in a trek like this – the moment of challenge, when you first sight such a stretch of country, and the moment of triumph, when you look back over the same stretch as its conqueror. In the present case that moment of triumph still feels very far away.

  From the base of the escarpment we slithered down a precipitous ploughed slope and were suddenly confronted with the most difficult descent yet. This was not a straightforward progress from high to low, but an involved scramble up, down and across a confusing complex of cliffs, ridges, and crags on which the path sometimes overhung drops of up to 1,000 feet. I enjoy rugged mountains, deep valleys and precarious situations – but one can have too much of anything.

  We were three-quarters down when Jock lost his footing and went over the edge. I could hardly grasp the horror of it as I watched him fall. My mind refused to register that this really was happening. He landed on his back, on a narrow ledge some thirty feet below the track – and then rolled off on to the next ledge, twenty feet lower. Mercifully this second ledge was about fifteen feet wide. Had he again rolled off he would have crashed onto rocks three hundred feet below.

  Knowing nothing of the durability of mules I was astounded to see him scrambling to his feet, apparently intact. Impatience to examine him sent me down that cliff like a baboon – forgetful of my knee, which was severely re-wrenched on the way. The poor fellow was trembling all over – and so was I – but he seemed quite unharmed, and when I realised this I flung my arms around his neck and burst into tears. One could easily buy another mule, but one could never buy another Jock.

  When we had pulled ourselves together I set about collecting my kit, which was strewn all over the two ledges. Yet the saddle was still in place: probably it had been both the cause of Jock’s fall and the shield which preserved him from injury. (Very likely Italian loading techniques were not adopted here because in these mountains it is safer to avoid protuberances on either side.) Little damage had been done, apart from a box of carbon paper being ruined by a burst tin of insecticide. Even my precious bottle of ink and my still more precious fountain-pen were unbroken. However, I soon discovered that it is not easy to load a mule on a ledge fifteen feet by ten, above a sheer drop of three hundred feet – particularly
when the nerves of all concerned are in bits. It took me twenty minutes to get organised, and then we began timorously to pick our way across the cliff to rejoin what here passes for a path.

  Twenty minutes later we were on the floor of a long, hot valley, where the arid earth was a dirty white and even the scrub looked unhealthy. Now I knew that my knee had been badly injured. Each step was such agony that I decided to spend the night in the nearest compound. But the second of the month is not our luckiest date. During the next four and a half torturing hours I saw not even one tukul in the distance – and I was afraid to camp out, lest a stiffening knee should leave me incapable of defending Jock from the possible attacks of hyenas or leopards.

  The rough track led us out of the valley, up, across and down an amba, and then again down, down, down through dense forest to a broad river-bed where a shrunken stream flowed filthily between green-slimed stones. By then I was past caring about filth or slime. I drank pints to match Jock’s gallons, bathed and massaged my knee and in a daze of pain tackled the last lap – a ninety-minute climb to a wide plateau scattered with patches of stubble. A settlement lay half-way up a mountain at the plateau’s western edge, and though our arrival caused some alarm my agonised exhaustion quickly reassured everyone.