In Ethiopia with a Mule (13 page)
Read In Ethiopia with a Mule Online
Authors: Dervla Murphy
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.
Highland babies and toddlers are pampered and lovingly fondled by all the family – but from about the age of three respect for their elders, instant obedience and complete silence in the presence of adults are rigidly enforced. No child, when speaking to an unrelated elder, will raise his voice above a whisper, and any boy who is careless about his shepherding duties can expect a severe beating. Dr Levine remarks that the effect of all this repression is ‘to inhibit rather than to stimulate the development of individuality’. Yet most boys seem happy and high-spirited, as they scamper about on the sunny mountainsides and their sisters seem no less contented, as they work with mother around the compound acquiring the essential domestic skills. Doubtless such unreasonably harsh discipline stunts the mental and spiritual growth of a race, and one can see
it as both cause and effect of the static state of highland culture; but it also has the stabilising merit of consistency, and I know a number of Western children who would benefit greatly if only someone were primitive enough to inhibit the development of their personalities.
Tonight I must choose my sleeping-place with caution; last night Jock was tethered so close to me that during the small hours he trod on my left shin-bone – a painful occurrence. Now another chit-palaver is being held, but I am
determined
to break loose tomorrow. Today I rather enjoyed the odd sensation of being totally without responsibility for my own movements, but I don’t want a repetition of the experience. As yet it is impossible to plan my breaking loose; certainly Jock must be loaded before I rebel, and then I’ll have to devise an escape technique suitable to the particular personalities involved and the
circumstances
of the moment.
*
Ethiopian Christians so detest smoking that no one may kiss the cross who is thought ever to have used tobacco – and Yohannes IV considered it his duty to have the lips of smokers cut off. Some highlanders believe that tobacco was the only plant not to wither at the hour of Christ’s crucifixion and others believe that the first tobacco plant sprang from the intestines of Arius. Probably the prohibition originated in hostility to Muslims, as did similar prohibitions against eating camel-flesh and drinking coffee – though now coffee is Ethiopia’s main export and has become a popular drink. Certainly the tobacco taboo did not come from Egypt, where the Copts have always smoked, and a nice story is told about one nicotine-deprived nineteenth-century Abuna who declared – ineffectually – that he would break all his pipes over the priests’ heads if they prevented him from lifting the ban on tobacco.
*
Until recently the highlanders have been strongly biased against writing and Dr Levine explains that ‘The act of writing was considered to be inherently shameful; like any manual activity other than farming and fighting, writing was regarded as degrading work, the business of scribes whose status was thereby not much higher than that of potters and metal-smiths. Only a small percentage of the clergy learned to write, and those who did were rarely adept. The products of writing, moreover, were deemed either too sacred or too nefarious to warrant giving laymen easy access to their medium. Script belonged above all else to the realm of scripture. The awe felt for holy writs was a deterrent against using that medium for other than devotional purposes. The chief private use of writing was for the magic formulas of the
debtara
, another connection with the supernatural that discouraged its lay practice. The
debtara
’s art served injurious as well as beneficial purposes, and the fear that those who learned to write might stumble onto potent phrases was reason for restricting that skill to a small group of the initiated.’ However, since the Liberation all legal accusations and court proceedings have to be set down in writing, so the highlanders’ passion for litigation is now overcoming their aversion to the written word.
M
Y ESCAPE THIS MORNING was so easy that one could call it a release. At dawn yesterday’s escort returned to their compound, and for some reason my host appeared not to take
faranj
-protection very seriously. By seven o’clock Jock had been loaded and the chits given, with many admonitions, to a disgruntled, unarmed, puny youth, who looked quite scared at the idea of taking off into the wilds with a
faranj
; and, on realising that he alone was to accompany me, I felt already free.
Beyond the compound I firmly deprived my companion of Jock’s halter, set a fast pace up a high hill, increased the pace across a level two miles and, as the sun was getting hot, almost sprinted up another higher and steeper hill – at the top of which I paused, breathless and streaming sweat, to gaze sadistically back at my distant victim, now desperately signalling me to wait. When I began to slither quickly down the steep shale slope Jock looked at me reproachfully, seeming to ask if I had taken leave of my senses. However, the sure-footed
highlanders
can always beat me on such descents and soon my escort was waving the chits in my face, while indicating a compound some half-an-hour’s climb up the northern mountain. But for three hours we had seen no one and the youth was now thoroughly demoralised. Pointing ahead I repeated ‘
Bicha
!’ (‘Alone!’) several times, in a threatening voice. Then, to ease things for him when he had to confess his failure, I went into the chit business myself and inscribed a long message in my most flourishing hand on impressively-headed ship’s writing paper; and when he had accepted this I said goodbye and went full speed ahead towards the next hill. Once I glanced back, to see the poor lad sitting beneath an acacia tree, looking bewildered. I hope he wasn’t beaten on his return home.
It was blissful to be on my own again – alone in a region that looked more grandly wild and felt more utterly remote than anywhere else I have ever been. For the next two hours we ambled up and down the low grey hills that here run parallel to the Ataba ravine – which was close below, with its fast, shallow river running clear and green beneath a southern wall of fissured red rock. This area is so barren that until one o’clock I saw no
tukuls
and few traces of cultivation.
Then a small settlement appeared ahead, and three snarling dogs came racing down the steep slope. Shouting ‘
Hid
!’ I stoned them in the approved fashion, as their noise brought a few cautiously curious men to the edge of the settlement. Had we not been observed I would have passed by, preferring to avoid the locals until dusk, but now I decided to attempt some foraging for Jock. As we approached the nearest compound the women fled indoors and the men uneasily moved to a little distance before questioning me in Amharinya. I replied ‘
Amharinya yellum
’, indicating my tongue and shaking my head – and then I pointed to Jock and asked hopefully, ‘
Buccolo injara
?’ (Mule food?). At once the tension slackened, either because this request was so reassuringly normal, or because it was already obvious that however inexplicable my presence might be I hardly constituted a menace to the community. Two men stepped forward and led Jock into the compound, beckoning me to follow; and as he was being unloaded, and given an armful of un-nourishing straw, the women peered from their
tukuls
to ask if I were ‘
set
’ or ‘
saw
’. I replied ‘
set
,’ but everyone looked disbelieving; so a man ‘sexed’ me in the usual way – and when he had confirmed my femininity the women relaxed and shyly invited me into a
tukul
.
Within this tiny hut I sat near the door, on a mud bed, while men from all over the settlement came crowding round to stare. No
talla
was produced – evidence of extreme poverty – but two women immediately set about preparing a meal, first pointing to a mysterious substance hanging from the ceiling and enquiring if I approved of it. I was hungry enough to approve of anything chewable so I nodded enthusiastically and said ‘
Thuru! Thuru!
’ (Good!). The substance proved to be strips of dried beef – a precious delicacy – and when it had been chopped up and simmered with salt and cinnamon (two other delicacies) the tasty stew was served on a round of stale, inferior
injara
.
Meanwhile some men were questioning me about my route – one question that I can always answer, merely by reciting a list of names – while others were examining my body as though it belonged to a circus freak. My feet were picked up and my boots gazed at in wonder, my hair was felt and exclaimed over, the
golden down on my tanned forearms was gently pulled to see if it was in fact
growing
there, my shirt was opened and the whiteness of my torso marvelled at, and my rather conspicuous calf-muscles were prodded respectfully – and then the men looked at me and laughed, while prodding them again and saying, ‘Addis Ababa –
thuru
!’ Which I took to mean that they considered the muscles well-suited to the journey.
This interlude reinforced my theory that in remote regions it is best to show a total dependence on the locals. Within fifteen minutes I had been accepted by that settlement – as a most puzzling phenomenon, it is true, but also as someone to be fed, and joked with on terms of essential equality. The particular kind of communication established there would have been impossible had I arrived protected by armed men flourishing chits. In this country, as elsewhere, the best currency for purchasing kindness is trust.
Yet in certain circumstances trust must be tempered with prudence. While I was eating the men had turned their attention to my kit, which was no less a source of wonder than my body. Every object not in the sacks was scrutinised eagerly, and I could see that some objects were being coveted. To possess so many marvellous things bespoke a wealth beyond imagining, and soon a group of men began to beg insistently for a comb (they had seen mine), for the heavy rubber torch (they mistook it for a weapon), for the bird book (its brilliant
illustrations
delighted them), for the bucket, the water-bottle, Jock’s rarely-used bridle and my map. It was not unpleasant begging, but wistful as a child pleading for the moon; their intelligence failed to tell them that most of these possessions were supremely important to me – and at present irreplaceable, even were I a millionaire. I had intended getting my gift-box out of its sack and distributing a few combs and mirrors among the family who had entertained me; but now I realised that it could be tempting these men unfairly – and possibly dangerously – to let them see how many enviable articles are contained in my sacks. So I left having given them nothing. In future I must remember always to carry a day’s supply of gifts in Jock’s bucket.
For three hours we continued west along the valley floor, seeing no one, though occasional patches of stubble proved that the lower slopes of the northern mountain wall are inhabited. By now my map has rather lost its grip. It is lavish with lines of little red dots, marking ‘tracks’ – one of which is alleged to accompany the Ataba up this valley – but any track there may be is invisible to the naked European eye. Not that this matters, for one has to go west, between these gigantic ranges, and the terrain is easy enough. All day no break appeared
in the massive fortifications to the south; but there must be a break somewhere, and doubtless we’ll come to it eventually.
Soon after five o’clock a brief stretch of visible track led us down to river-level, and on the opposite bank ‘steps’ of high hills seemed to lead to the Semiens. Having crossed the Ataba (here a narrow stream) the track again vanished, but it was not too difficult to find a way up the forested hills and we climbed gradually – because diagonally – for the next forty minutes, rising to 8,400 feet. Here there were no signs of cultivation, so when we came to this natural terrace I decided to stop and unload Jock before dark. (How to re-load him tomorrow morning is tomorrow’s problem!) Very likely a settlement lies not far off – I think the next hill is ploughed – but it would be lunacy to attempt these forested, friable, tractless inclines by torchlight.
Now poor Jock is fending for himself; I can hear him munching nearby, so evidently he’s making the best of tough, scorched grass. His owner guiltily enjoyed an excellent supper – six ounces of tinned cheese with half a pound of raw prunes, eaten by brilliant starlight. Here the sky arches like some exotically decorated Emperor’s tent above all those square
ambas
, curving crests,
triangular
spires and jagged ridges that tonight form the boundaries of my world. Level with this ledge, on the other side of the valley, I can see a few little fires – companionable red dots in the darkness – and occasionally I hear the distant howling of dogs. At least I hope it is the howling of dogs, and not of hyenas; undoubtedly this is hyena country, which worries me slightly. Yet the lighting of a fire might attract human marauders, so instead I’ll tether Jock near me – a precaution that will restrict his grazing. Fortunately hypothetical hyenas cannot destroy my pleasure in this superbly beautiful ‘Night on the Bare Mountain’ – where the air feels like cool velvet and cicadas are serenading me from the valley and the still majesty of the mountains looms all around.
I slept deeply last night – with no hyena troubles, even in a nightmare – and woke just as morning ‘flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight’. It was 5.50, and for moments only a silver pallor hung in the east. Then quickly a faint pink flowed up from the hidden horizon – giving mountains and valley a new, soft, shadowed beauty – and soon this had deepened to a red-gold glow which seemed briefly to hold all the splendour of all the dawns that ever were. To lie beneath such a sky, surrounded by such peaks, brings an almost intolerably intense awareness of the duality of our nature. We belong so intimately and joyously and
tragically to this physical world, and by its own laws we soon must leave it. Yet during these moments one knows, too, with humility and certainty, that each human spirit is immortal – for time cannot destroy whatever element within us reverences the glory of a dawn in the mountains.
While breakfasting off more cheese and prunes I considered our load problem, and finally improvised a variation on the pannier theme. This ingenuity boosted my self-esteem considerably, but only temporarily. If necessity is the mother of invention she proved a very bad mother in this case and after precisely thirty-five minutes the whole invention fell asunder. Luckily we were then within twenty minutes’ walk of a settlement, so tethering Jock beside the shambles I went for help – and succeeded in obtaining it, after a long, patience-sapping session with two men whose natural slow-wittedness was accentuated by astonishment and suspicion.
Jock has a chill today. Last evening he was in a lather when we stopped and, though I rubbed him down hard, it is clear that Nights on Bare Mountains don’t suit him as well as they do me. He has been in wretched form since morning – sneezing repeatedly, looking hard-done-by when going uphill and refusing to eat. So we took it easy all day and only covered twelve miles.
The landscape changed completely within two miles of our camp. Suddenly the valley broadened, the dark soil was extensively cultivated and many hillsides were covered in freshly green shrubs, through which scores of birds darted brightly. During the forenoon I counted six settlements and the people were unexpectedly friendly – several men pursued me to present raw eggs or gourds of fresh milk or curds. Then would follow a long delay, while I sat on a stone enjoying these refreshments and explaining where I was coming from and going to.
The local dogs, however, were far from friendly. These enormous curs are the most dangerous animals in Ethiopia and twice today they really scared me. Once a pair followed us for about a mile, slavering and snarling ferociously. They seemed impervious to stones and only retreated when I’d knocked one of them half-unconscious with my
dula
, to deter him from leaping at my arm. Then, an hour later, a pack of five surrounded us in a paroxysm of aggressive fury, but Jock reacted by lashing out intelligently at the three who were closing in behind us and then swinging around to aim at the others. It was the first time I’ve seen him kicking and the implications of a mule-kick were not lost on the curs. At once they retreated to a safe distance – from everybody’s point of view.
Today’s direction-finding was much more taxing than yesterday’s. The inhabited foothills were criss-crossed with many faint paths and it was
impossible
to determine which path might ultimately turn south. Then from one o’clock, when all the settlements had been left behind, we were crossing trackless hills (now arid again) by whatever route looked easiest. This morning I attempted to find out the approximate point at which one can enter the Semiens; but in answer to my careful sign questions everyone merely pointed to the colossal massif towering immediately above us and repeated ‘Semien! Semien!’, while going through a pantomime of being exhausted to the point of collapse – which was neither illuminating nor consoling. However, at three o’clock the head of the valley came in sight – another gigantic mountain wall, obscuring the western sky – and I decided to descend to river level, since the Ataba seemed likely to be my most reliable guide to the heights.
Half-an-hour later we were beside a deep pool of cold, green, ice-clean water, so Jock had a long rest while my filthy body was being scrubbed. Then we meandered along an intermittent path just above the river, often having to force our way through thick groves of aromatic shrubs. Here a few cow-pats and goat droppings appeared though no settlements were visible; but at six o’clock, as I was looking around for a camping-site, smoke rose ahead – and five minutes later I saw this shepherds’ camp, where three young men and three boys were preparing for their nightly vigil.
