In Ethiopia with a Mule (33 page)

Last night must go among the Top Ten of hellish vigils. Within moments of entering that
tukul
I had realised that it was uncommonly well-stocked with fleas, bugs and body-lice – a new plague. These lice tend to induce an unpleasant fever so it was disconcerting to find that my last tin of insecticide had all leaked away. Then a violent thunderstorm broke and the force of the rain on the thatched roof loosened showers of large and very peculiar insects, who stampeded over me
vigorously
but elusively. This double downpour continued until 2.30 a.m., by which time the stench of animal urine was so strong that it might reasonably have been expected to asphyxiate any number of insects. But unhappily it did not.

Soon after 10 p.m. the fire was covered, everyone curled up beneath cow-hides and I began my eight-hour ordeal. However, there were diversions. A mirthfully inebriated all-night party was being held in the next-door
tukul
and we were treated to one donkey-fight and one cock-fight. The kicking, biting, squealing donkeys wakened everyone; and an hour after they had been separated, and tied to opposite walls, the populace again rose as one man to intervene between a pair of apoplectic cocks, one of whom was imprisoned, with difficulty, in a sack. The other then returned sulkily to his roost, some two feet above my head, and at about 3 a.m. he caused me to leap like a shot rabbit when he made a
machine-gun-like
noise with his wings before beginning to crow stridently. During the rest of the night he crowed every ten or fifteen minutes. If I had been capable of feeling anything at 6 a.m. I would have felt glad that the sun had risen.

My host was also coming to Waldia, bringing three donkeys loaded with hides, and at 6.45 we joined a caravan of nineteen other donkeys and seven
men. The sky was clear, but I have never anywhere encountered so much or such slippery mud. For an hour we were slithering into and out of a series of flooded ravines; then suddenly we were beyond the area of last night’s storm and the track went winding over bare, grey hills that looked as though they hadn’t had rain for a decade. A tough climb up a forested mountain brought Waldia’s blue-gums within sight and by eleven o’clock we had arrived at this dreary little town.

I felt exhausted as we approached the tin roofs and truck noises. By 1 p.m. I had bought a big feed of dried peas for Jock (oddly, no corn was available), and had renewed my supply of insecticide. Then I retired to my cleanish room, in this Italian-built, Ethiopian-run truck-drivers’ ‘hotel’, and slept until 5 p.m.

When I woke rain was crashing on the tin roof and one of the local teachers was awaiting me in the bar. He invited me to have dinner in his room and an hour ago I waded back here through an ankle-deep torrent of thin mud. If these are the ‘Little Rains’ one can easily believe that travelling is impossible in the highlands during the ‘Big Rains’ of June to September.

Today we were following the motor-road for all of our twenty-three miles, yet Jock seemed alarmingly tired towards evening.

This morning Waldia stank like a neglected public lavatory but beyond the town the rain-clear air was delicately scented by a flowering tree, with blossoms like balls of pale-yellow fluff, that grows here on many of the steep slopes. A long climb took us over the first of several passes, the road coiling around sheer, bare, brown mountains, from which streamed frequent miniature landslides of rain-loosened soil. Then we descended to a broad valley of many settlements and stubble-fields, where maize seemed to be the main crop. The landscape was bright with fifteen-foot-high pointed stooks of maize straw, looking like so many golden wigwams, and each stook had a thorn fence around its base as a protection against hungry cattle. These tall, thick maize stalks are a common local building material, being used to reinforce
tukul
walls and to form ceilings under the usual grass thatch. Most of the cattle here grow enormous, spreading horns – something I haven’t seen since leaving Tigre. This breed is lightly built and if the animals are underfed they walk as though their horns were too heavy for them to carry.

Soon a strong wind arose and by one o’clock the sky was two-thirds clouded over. Colossal mountains towered ruggedly around us and here the road became another example of Italian engineering genius. Today Jock was slightly
temperamental
about traffic but luckily we had to contend with no more than eight buses and nine trucks.

This big Jabarti compound is beside the road and high above it a Coptic
settlement
clings to the mountainside, half hidden by tangled bush and giant cacti. Despite its size the compound contains only one small
tukul
– the home of a young couple – and a long, Italian bungalow which may have been an army post during the Occupation. Five of the six rooms are no longer habitable and in the other lives a trio of ancient crones – one without a right eye, another without a left hand and the third pitifully burn-disfigured. These are my hostesses, and soon after I had entered their unfurnished, high-ceilinged home – illuminated only by the flicker of a tiny oil-lamp – the three abruptly rose, faced Mecca and began their evening prayers. They used a cow-hide prayer-mat and made a weird picture as they stood close together near the door, performing their rituals in unison, silhouetted against the cloudy dusk.

A meagre supper of
injara
and bean-
wat
was brought from the
tukul
and though the poverty of this family is extreme everyone insisted that I should have some. Now two donkeys, a cow, a calf and Jock are being driven into another room, which I have decided to share with the livestock in preference to being a meal for bugs.

St Patrick’s Day – appropriately, my first all-cloudy day in Ethiopia. When we set out at 6.30 it felt like a wet summer’s morning in Ireland, for soft rain was falling steadily and clouds hung low over a warm, dripping world. From the first pass I could see three new ranges with rags of silver mist trailing across and between their blueness. As we reached the valley floor the rain became a deluge and soon I was suffering from humidity – a strange sensation, after three months of exhilarating dryness. Here we slogged through mile after mile of thick, sticky mud and it was impossible to keep swarms of tickling flies off my face and neck. However, these incidental discomforts seemed well worthwhile when I looked around at the gloriously green countryside. Twice during the morning I stopped to graze Jock, who tore ravenously at the sweet, fresh grass. I hope his bowels survive this drastic change of diet.

Then came another long, sweaty climb to a high pass where a sleety wind flayed us. From here sections of the road were visible for many miles ahead, descending around mountain after mountain, and it was three o’clock before we reached the valley floor. The rough terrain ahead seemed likely to be
uninhabited
so I called at a settlement, bought a bundle of straw for Jock’s supper and tied it to the top of the load, ignoring Jock’s hint that it was already supper-time. He is indeed an astute animal. Normally he never stops to shake himself more than once a day, but today he chanced to shake after I had bought the straw and a little of it fell off, so I foolishly paused to give him time to eat it. Cause and effect were not lost on our Jock. Soon he stopped to shake again, turned expectantly towards the few dislodged mouthfuls and looked cheated when I cruelly picked them up and stuffed them back with the rest.

At the end of the next climb the road levelled out to wind around forested slopes where there were no sounds of voices or signs of cultivation. At sunset a barren valley appeared below us and on the far side I could see our road climbing another high,
tukul
-less range. I could also see a wide bridge, spanning a half-full river-bed, so as the sky promised more heavy rain I decided to camp beneath one of its arches. By the time we reached the bridge it was dark, and because Jock was stumbling wearily after our twenty-eight miles we had some difficulty getting down to river-level and finding a site. I cursed myself for having neglected to buy a torch in Waldia, where it hadn’t occurred to me that it might be necessary to camp out on the main road.

In the morning I’ll have to wait for a passing truck-driver to load Jock. However, this shouldn’t cause much delay, as southbound trucks often stop overnight at Waldia.

It rained heavily last night, but the Italians built solid bridges and I woke dry, though stiff. My bed was a pile of small boulders, yet having once arranged my body in the most comfortable position even this unpromising couch didn’t seem to matter. Wakening at 5.30, I saw that my tethering of Jock in the dark had been so inefficient that he had broken loose and had joined me under the arch, no doubt to shelter from the downpour.

As I was packing up, the distant roar of a giant petrol-truck reverberated through the valley. The driver and his mate made a clumsy job of the loading – possibly because they were so astonished by the whole situation – but in a village on the crest of the next ridge, where I stopped at a rudimentary ‘bar-restaurant’, the servants reloaded carefully.

I was relishing my third big glass of tea when a tall, elderly man entered the shack, wearing scanty rags and carrying a bundle tied to his
dula
. Sitting near me, he ordered a small glass of tea, which costs only five cents in many areas.
Then he quickly asked ‘How much?’ and, on being told ‘Ten cents’, cancelled his order and stood up to leave without argument or complaint. Obviously he was starting a long day’s walk so I ordered tea and
dabo
for him, and after a moment’s surprised hesitation he accepted his change of fortune with dignified gratitude. This tiny incident affected me more than any number of statistics on poverty.

All morning the road climbed gradually, the light breeze was cool and puffy white cloudlets drifted across a deep blue sky. We passed many settlements and on glistening pastures herds grazed contentedly, while from the smooth greenness rose long, brown mountains, with pine-woods darkening their lower slopes and round clouds resting on their summits – seeming to reflect faintly the cinnamon tinges of the earth beneath.

At 10.30 we stopped in a small town and Jock applied himself to the fresh grass that grew around the
talla-beit
. On the way from Waldia I have rested in several towns and villages and I find the people of this (Wallo) province
exceptionally
friendly and hospitable. They seem less susceptible to the ‘main-road infection’ than the people of Begemdir – or perhaps they have been less exposed to it – and in the village homes one sees few foreign innovations.

On the long climb to the pass above Dessie the road wound around mountains so colossal that I felt like a midge on a cathedral wall; here every slope blazed with the waxy, orange-red flowers of a small cactus plant which grew amidst a scattering of shimmering blue-green eucalyptus saplings. Because of the
contortions
of these mountains one first sees Dessie – hardly two miles away, but far, far below – about three hours before one arrives. After a long westward detour over the pass the road swings south-east, crosses a minor mountain and drops abruptly to the provincial capital.

On the pass we were joined by a friendly couple, also bound for Dessie, who offered to show me a short cut. Together we left the road and descended steeply to boggy, level pastures, which soon became waterlogged ploughland, divided into sections by channels some three feet wide and four feet deep. Here it was almost impossible to keep upright for this newly-turned, flood-sodden clay was like a mixture of butter and treacle. Then, as we were crossing one of the channels, Jock misjudged his jump and slipped backward into the water. At first only his hind legs were stuck, but in his struggles to free himself he turned, slipped again, and became wedged between the walls of the channel.

For the next horrible half-hour the three of us, assisted by two small local boys, floundered through mud and water encouraging poor Jock to help himself. There was little else to be done, apart from removing his load and saddle – in
the course of which operation I twice fell into the foul liquid at the bottom of the ditch. I could hardly bear to watch the unhappy creature again and again heaving up towards relatively solid ground, but always being defeated by
slipperiness
and lack of manoeuvring space. Then at last he freed himself sufficiently for me to force him to turn in the other direction and I persuaded him to work his way along, slowly, to a point where the channel widened enough for him to jump clear. He looked shaken and miserable as we reloaded and liquid mud had increased the weight of both load and saddle. So I decided to give him a day off tomorrow.

On the outskirts of Dessie the friendly couple said goodbye and, as we continued towards the Touring Hotel, scores of delighted children were attracted to us by my mud-blackened person.

According to the official guidebook this Italian-built hotel ‘offers fair service at moderate prices, but it is usually empty and has a gloomy atmosphere’. I have noticed before that the author of
Welcome to Ethiopia
makes it a point of honour never to mislead
faranjs
on the subject of Ethiopian hotels, and in his anxiety to be objective he sometimes goes too far. This enormous, clean building is furnished with elaborate tastelessness and, to the extent that only two of its one hundred and four bedrooms are occupied tonight, it does perhaps justify the adjective gloomy. Yet the staff welcomed us so cheerfully that it seems to me quite a jolly place. Two maidservants conducted me to my room, down an interminable carpeted corridor on which I deposited ounces of mud at every step; and when I apologised for the havoc in my wake they laughed loudly, patted me forgivingly on the shoulder and told me that I was like a
buccolo
in the
tukul
. Perhaps they were glad to have something to do.