In Ethiopia with a Mule (31 page)

I can’t wish, even for the sake of an iced drink, to be up there hurtling towards Addis.

It is impossible to mule-sit efficiently after climbing mountains all day. Last night my sense of duty roused me only once, for long enough to heave two huge branches on to the fire. I then slept deeply until six o’clock, yet when I woke our hillock of embers still glowed rosy in the silver dawn-light – and Jock was safe, though not, as I soon discovered, sound. There was a great joy in that solitary awakening to the cool stillness of a mountain morning.

While I was eating a tin of sardines the baboons came quite close and sat round scratching and making insulting gestures and abusive remarks; but when I stood up they retreated, protesting raucously.

By 6.45 we had begun a two-hour struggle with a series of broken,
thickly-forested
hills which sometimes threatened to defeat us utterly. Abuna Josef was disobligingly invisible, but that didn’t matter much, for my immediate concern was to escape in any direction from this formidable complex of gullies and spurs. Then suddenly we were free – overlooking a broad, gradual slope of
sun-powdered
grey soil. And at the foot of the slope gleamed water.

This tributary of last evening’s river was laced with minute strips of green slime, but I reasoned that these must be composed of some health-giving vegetable matter. Beyond the high riverside dunes of fine grey sand I again looked for Abuna Josef, but on every side towering ranges restricted my vision to a few miles and warped my sense of direction. So I went vaguely towards the least stern-looking mountain, hoping that from its summit Abuna Josef might be more co-operative.

It was during this climb that Jock began to fold up. He moved only very slowly, his breathing was heavy and his expression was the ultimate in dejection. I felt seriously alarmed, but not at all surprised. He has had little corn since we left Debre Tabor and we have been averaging twenty miles a day through
demanding country. At the thought of his collapsing in this godforsaken spot I almost panicked. I myself was now safely within reach of Lalibela, but the desertion of Jock, to save my own miserable skin, would be an experience from which I could never hope to recover; and I doubted if my common-sense would prove robust enough for me to abandon a sick animal and a good friend to beasts of prey.

My own empty stomach was sick with anxiety as Jock battled on, game as ever, to the top. Now I looked desperately for Abuna Josef but the giant was still hidden behind a new array of nearer mountains.

While Jock rested I studied the terrain ahead. Lalibela, I knew, was at about the same height as this summit, so I decided to try to avoid further steep climbs by keeping, where possible, to the upper flanks of the intervening ranges – even if this meant doubling our mileage. However, we were soon forced down by scree slopes so steep – and above such a deep chasm – that I dared not risk them with a weakly stumbling Jock. We then followed a level, winding, silver-sanded gully; it seemed to be going in quite the wrong direction, but the only alternatives were other possibly futile ascents.

It was 10.40 when a faint path appeared on the left-hand slope. Relief exalted me – and perhaps infected Jock, who here quickened his pace in response to my eager tugs at the halter. Twenty minutes later we had reached another wretched Jabarti settlement, on a grey, desiccated hilltop. The compounds were fortified with ill-kept ‘Connemara’ stone walls, and the people – who must see tourists if they trade in Lalibela – observed our arrival apathetically. They had neither fodder for Jock nor food for me; but from this hilltop a man pointed out the route to Lalibela.

The miles that followed were the most trying of the whole trek. Had Jock behaved mulishly his suffering might have been a little less heart-rending, but he struggled on – becoming hourly more enfeebled – with a faithful courage that I shall never forget.

My earlier ambition to avoid climbing now looked absurd. Below the
settlement
the path expired in a broad, barren valley and for a few miles we followed a deep, dry river-bed, overhung by dense forest, between mountains which
eventually
merged so that we had to climb one of them. (My reward for this was the reappearance of Abuna Josef; he still looked dishearteningly far away, yet his presence had a steadying influence.) Then came another descent, another valley, another river-bed – this one retaining stagnant pools of malarial water – and yet another mountain on which we again went astray amidst gullies and thorn
thickets. All that brought us to the most harrowing stage – a continual two-hour climb up a massive mountain wall which stretched unbroken for miles between us and Lalibela. At this point I faced the possibility that we might have to camp out, though one more night without adequate fodder would be likely to leave Jock too weak to continue in the morning. Here he had to pause about every ten yards to recover his breath; when he had stopped panting I would tug hard on the halter and he would meekly make the painful effort necessary to cover the next ten yards. Each time he stopped I stroked his nose consolingly and he gazed at me with dull, sad eyes. I hope never again to live through two such hours.

Below the crest the inevitable rock escarpment was not very high, but the absence of any established route to the top made it exceptionally difficult. Now poor Jock was near complete collapse. At the foot of the cliff he hung his head and refused to budge. This was the moment that I had been dreading; I had no alternative but to go behind him and use my
dula
. Reluctantly he responded, and I would like to think that he understood the spirit in which I was thrashing him. As he scrambled on to the crest ahead of me I was sick with suspense, knowing that if just one more climb lay between us and Lalibela he couldn’t possibly make it. I almost sprang on to the top in my anxiety, looked over the wide, new panorama – and thanked God to see tin roofs and blue-gums in the distance, on a level with ourselves. A deep valley intervened, its floor littered with hills, but our path swept semicircularly around the upper flanks of the high mountains to the north.

It took us two and a half hours to cover the last four miles and the several severe inclines were agony for Jock. Near Lalibela the track falls abruptly, to cross the river Jordan; then it climbs steeply. When we reached Lalibela Jock stopped in the middle of the ‘Main Street’ in a determined way and gave me a look signifying that as far as he was concerned we had arrived. Seeing his point, I unloaded him on the spot – surrounded by unhelpfully staring locals – and hired three youths to carry our saddlery and sacks to the tourist hotel, which is on a high ledge above the town. Elsewhere one wouldn’t have to pay people to help a traveller in obvious distress – but Lalibela is one of Ethiopia’s main tourist centres.

As I led Jock up this last steep hill, through the dusk, I suddenly became aware of my own miserable state and the pain of my knee and the soreness of my lungs swept over me like a wave. Not having eaten anything like a square meal for days I again got the knocks, as I did outside Gondar. Yet here I couldn’t eat when I dragged myself into the restaurant; and tonight, for the first time in this
country, I have that stabbing, fiery bellyache which is the prelude to dysentery. Perhaps those strips of green slime were not, after all, health-giving. 

H
ERE EVERYONE SAYS briskly that of course Jock must now be sold and another mule bought; but such insensitive talk of buying and selling outrages me. As events have proved, Jock is no ordinary pack-animal, and to part from him would blight the rest of my journey. The experts admit that his only complaint is malnutrition, so I have decided simply to give him a week’s well-fed rest and to reduce his future load by abandoning the Italian saddle and sending my books to Addis.

Today I left the hotel compound only briefly, to lunch with the Governor at his nearby home. Much of my time was spent fidgeting around Jock,
supervising
his feeding, and between fidgets I lay reading on my bed, cosseting my divers diseases. The dysentery attack seems to have been successfully repelled by sulphaguanidine: but Jock isn’t the only one who needs a week’s rest.

Once upon a time Lalibela – then known as Roha – was the capital of the Zagwe dynasty, whose Hamitic Agow Kings replaced the Solomonic line for some three hundred years, from about 920. These kings are now officially if illogically regarded as usurpers, by way of upholding that Solomonic legend which gives such moral support to the present dynasty. However, they were Christian Agow, and one of them – Lalibela – is a saint of the Ethiopian Church. According to a manuscript now in the British Museum he was the last but one of his line, and between 1182 and 1220 (Ethiopian calendar) he sponsored the construction of ten of Lalibela’s famed rock churches. The eleventh is said to have been built by his widow, as his memorial.

These churches have been sculpted out of living rock and they are among the few renowned ‘wonders of the world’ which, when seen at last, gave me a shock of joy. Tradition says that for their construction King Lalibela employed four or five hundred skilled workers from Jerusalem and Alexandria, as well as innumerable locals; and in the sixteenth century Francisco Alvarez, the
Portuguese
traveller, was told by monks at Lalibela that the eleven churches had been completed within twenty-four years. Soon after their completion an Ethiopian scribe wrote: ‘What tongue is capable of giving a description of them? He who beholds them will never be able to gaze his fill; his marvelling is so great that his heart is never tired of admiring them.’ I quite agree, and am glad that we are taking our rest-cure here.

Much as I am enjoying Lalibela’s churches, the atmosphere of the town depresses me. Until three years ago this was a remote mountain village, visited only by a few
faranjs
and by highlanders on pilgrimages to King Lalibela’s tomb. Now Ethiopian Airlines provide a link with Addis six days a week, the Seven Olives Hotel provides a reasonable imitation of Home Comforts, the local children form a corps of professional beggars and the taint of greed lies heavy on the air.

The hotel is owned by Princess Ruth, a younger sister of Leilt Aida and reputedly the Emperor’s favourite grandchild. Since it was opened two and a half years ago it has been managed by an American ex-missionary who sports pious texts on the rear windows of his Land-Rover and took twenty-four hours to realise that I am not Mr Murphy. (He still wriggles all over with apologetic embarrassment every time we meet, though I have repeatedly assured him that his error is in the best highland tradition.) The charge for a single room in the main building is 42/–, and I’m paying 18/– for a cell (in the annexe) which is furnished only with twin beds and has a low tin roof, mud walls, a stone floor and a tiny unglazed window – anywhere else in this country a similar room would cost 3/–. However, the profits are spent on the drought victims of Lasta and during recent years the regional ills would have been even worse but for the Seven Olives Hotel.

Yesterday the kindly District Governor was flying to Addis at noon, and he took an SOS from me to Lady Bromley. I am against the transferring of
travellers
’ worries to Embassy shoulders, but the present crisis seemed to excuse my appealing for a sun-hat, water-pills and Biros, to be put on a plane to Lalibela one day this week. Then, at 11.30 a.m. today, I received a large canvas Britannic
Majesty bag, solemnly sealed, and containing not only the essentials I had requested but two tin-openers, a compass, a pair of sunglasses and a fat wad of mail. This generous efficiency filled me with awed gratitude. The Governor had gone straight from the airport to the Embassy and delivered my letter into the very hands of Lady Bromley, who had gone straight to the shops, filled the bag and sent it post haste to the airport. May St Lalibela bless them both!

Lalibela’s houses look unusually attractive; many are circular, two-storied, stone buildings, with thatched roofs – I have seen nothing similar elsewhere. Priests and their families form the greater part of the population and, like most
highlanders
, these people are much less dour than they seem on first acquaintance. During my rambles today I was twice invited into
tej-beits
for drinks on the house (Lalibela
tej
is exceptionally good), and one group of old Agow women asked me to stop and eat roast corn with them, as they sat in the sun outside their
tukul
. After our conspicuous arrival here everyone has made enquiries about us, so I am basking now in Special Treatment. Even the hotel waiters give me double rations at each meal, on the grounds that walkers need more food than fliers.

This evening Jock is noticeably plumper and the small girth sore on his belly has healed completely. My own state is also satisfactory. The knee injury has responded well to lack of ill-treatment and the chest pain has gone; but I am being persecuted by a peculiar cough which keeps me awake and seems immune to antibiotics.

Today my medical state was far from satisfactory; the sulphaguanidine has given up fighting whatever exotic bacteria I now contain and I have been almost
annihilated
by a blitz of dysentery. This evening I feel kittenishly weak, and can no more imagine myself walking to Addis on my feet than on my hands; but with luck I’ll revive as suddenly as I collapsed. Meanwhile I lie on a comfortable bed, counting my blessings between excursions to the loo. It was exceedingly benevolent of my Guardian Angel to preserve me from this onslaught until I had arrived here.

I woke this morning feeling much better belly-wise, but as my cough was worse I walked slowly down to the new Health Centre after a prudent breakfast of
anaemic tea. The Medical Officer impressed me by his intelligence and
dedication
; probably Princess Ruth hand-picked him for this post. He is not a doctor, but simply a sincerely concerned young man with a stethoscope around his neck and lots of common sense in his head – the ideal type to achieve maximum results with the minimum of fuss.

When he had written out a prescription for me I took it to another room – stepping over dozens of groaning patients – where an equally impressive
Addistrained
nurse poured thick chalky liquid out of a ‘Grant’s Whisky’ bottle into a smaller bottle, and wrapped a fistful of tablets in a scrap of Amharic-printed newspaper. She told me to take the medicine four times a day and eight tablets a day for a week. No one would commit themselves to naming either remedy, but I paid my 4/– and bore them away, hoping for the best. The tablets were obviously of the sulpha group, the medicine could have been anything. I was astonished when my cough dwindled after the first dose and almost stopped after the second.

I had planned to trek tomorrow to Imrahanna Kristos – a church built in a cave on the western slopes of Abuna Josef – where I intended spending a night. Before my visit to the medicine man it had seemed that this
expedition
would have to be forgotten, but by noon I felt so restored that I set out to climb to a church near the summit of the mountain directly above Lalibela, and I got there – so now the trek to Imrahanna Kristos is
on
again. Granted I turned back at the church without reaching the summit, which signifies a weakened condition; but if I proceed tomorrow at a sedate, convalescent pace all should be well.

All is well, to the extent that I have got here, though today’s walk was a singularly unsuitable excursion for convalescents. Otherwise all is far from well, and this evening I am in a very bad temper.

As a concession to my semi-invalidism I decided to bring a porter-boy with me and last evening Giorgis, a charming fourteen-year-old, came to my room and said that he had been sent by Mrs Dettenberg, a German artist who is
Lalibela
’s only foreign resident – apart from the hotel-manager – and who has been a good friend to me during this past week. Giorgis is the son of a priest and is himself a deacon. He looks pitiably undersized and being a pupil of the Church school he speaks no English, but he is an unspoiled child with a sudden smile that wonderfully lights up his small brown face.

We set off at eight o’clock, collecting on the way a letter from the Governor’s office requesting the priests here to ‘grant me every assistance’. After a
spectacular
plunge into a wide, dusty valley we climbed on to one of Abuna Josef’s powerful 9,000-foot shoulders, from where I was again overlooking the land of our travail between Lalibela and Debre Zeit, whose plateau was now a long, clean-cut, cobalt chunk on the far horizon. I well remembered first seeing this landscape – and Abuna Josef – from the edge of that chunk.

It felt good to be back on the uplands, breathing keen air and seeing the world through that pure light of the heights which adds splendour to every colour. This well-watered plateau is strewn with colossal granite boulders and herds of horses and mules keep the fresh pastures so close-cropped that they look like well-tended lawns. Around them lie acres of brown ploughland and golden stubble-fields, all dotted with tiny settlements; and directly above, to the east, rises a further craggy 4,000 feet of Abuna Josef.

At midday the path again climbed steeply, taking us about a thousand feet higher across the face of a rock escarpment. Then another easy walk – over still greener pastures, where the wind was cold – ended dramatically on the edge of the plateau and at my feet lay a vast, fierce turmoil of mountains and valleys.

A difficult path led us down from ledge to ledge along Abuna Josef’s mighty flanks. Eventually we came to the remains of an ancient forest and walked to the foot of the mountain through a cool gloom beneath huge, deformed conifers.

Imrahanna Kristos appears unexpectedly when the path plunges into the narrow, shadowed head of a valley, from which high mountains rise steeply on three sides. Under the centre mountain is a deep cave, and within this cave stands the church. I first glimpsed it from above, while scrambling down the last rocky thirty yards, but a six-foot wall guards the cave’s wide mouth and only the roof is visible from the level space outside the enclosure.

Here I sat down heavily on a boulder. Nearby stood the priests’ residence – a two-storied, circular stone hut – and within moments we were surrounded by three priests and sundry deacons. Respectfully I dragged myself to my feet, bowed and handed the Governor’s chit to the senior priest, but without even glancing at this official introduction the ordained trio aggressively demanded a down payment of five dollars. They sounded more like
shifta
than clergy and I promptly lost my temper and snapped, ‘Cents
yellum
!’ – though I had brought five dollars as a parting donation. In such an impoverished area insistent begging from ‘rich’
faranjs
is understandable, but there was no excuse for this truculence.

Then I decided to compromise by offering one dollar – and immediately all three closed around me, gesturing towards the path and yelling ‘
Hid
!
Lalibela!
Hid
!
Lalibela!’ Possibly this was an attempt to cow me; they may have assumed that I would be afraid to spend a night on the mountain. I was about to leave, in a fury, when a tall youth stepped forward from among the
debtaras
. He spoke a few words of English – with which he tried to soothe me, before turning to the priests and suggesting that they read the Governor’s chit. Apparently none of them was sufficiently literate for this, so he himself laboriously read it aloud; but the voice of officialdom made no impression.

Meanwhile I had been retrieving my temper. I explained that if the clergy would show a minimum of civility, and unlock the church, I would make a suitable donation on departure; but they obstinately repeated that they wouldn’t open even the enclosure door for less than five dollars. Whereupon I beckoned to poor Giorgis – who had been cowering behind a boulder – and started back up the path. Forgetting my tiredness in my rage, I moved fast – but was checked by shouts from below, offering to open the enclosure for E. $1.50. I was tempted to ignore this haggling, yet I did want to see Imrahanna Kristos. So I returned, handed over the ‘reduced fee’ and was admitted to the cave, with a promise that I would be shown the interior of the building tomorrow morning.

This 800-year old church has horizontal bands of whitish plaster and black wood which, seen through muted cave-light, surprisingly recall medieval England. The building is only forty-two feet long and its sanctuary is roofed by a low dome, not unlike a Buddhist
stupa
. It was built by a priest-king, Imrahann Kristos, who reigned from about 1110–1150 and of whom it was written in an ancient manuscript (seen here in the 1520s by Francisco Alvarez) that ‘during the whole life of this King he had not taken dues from his vassals, and that if anyone brought them to him he ordered them to be distributed among the poor’. It seems that these royal ideals have ceased to inspire the local clergy. Walking around the church, past the tombs of the king and his saintly daughter, I noticed another link with Buddhism in the swastika design which decorates some of the very beautiful carved wood and pierced stone windows. And suddenly, in this remote shrine of fossilised sanctity, the moribund religion of modern Ethiopia seemed intensely tragic.