In Ethiopia with a Mule (34 page)

My 12/– room has a large window that opens, a knee-hole writing-desk, a comfortable bed, a bedside lamp, a washbasin into which water will flow (I am assured) tomorrow morning, and a palatial wardrobe whose door-handles fall off at a touch. (This last point is of merely academic interest, since I have no robes to ward.) But the most valuable feature of the whole extraordinary establishment is its garden – some three acres of uncut grass, on which Jock is now gorging in the company of four bullocks, two sheep and five turkeys. This opulent grazing more than compensates for the fact that none of the taps in the innumerable bathrooms produces water, so I had to de-mud myself under a hesitantly-
dripping
cold shower. The Manageress is a blonde Italian woman, who was born sixty years ago in Eritrea. Universally known as ‘Mamma’, she is by far the fattest and one of the kindest people I have ever met.

There is a tragicomic incongruity about some Ethiopian place-names. Dessie means ‘My Joy’, yet never have I seen such a depressingly ugly collection of human habitations. This is the third city of Ethiopia, with a population of about 80,000; but, as my guidebook explains, ‘It is actually hard to call Dessie a city or a town; rather it fits the description of “over-grown village”. Though the “town” is cramped in a small valley, its important position between the lowlands and the plateau and between Addis Ababa and Asmara, has contributed to its growth as an important commercial centre.’

However, by switching off the current between eyes and brain it is possible eventually to derive some joy from Dessie. The friendly people seem much more outgoing than most highlanders and, despite its monstrous ugliness, I greatly prefer this city to alien Asmara. At least Dessie is genuinely Ethiopian, with donkeys browsing in front gardens throughout the ‘residential district’, and women washing clothes in the gutters of the main streets.

Today I got into conversation with my fellow-guest – a withdrawn young government official from Addis, whose strained expression worried me until I discovered that dysentery is the cause. The patient blamed Dessie’s water and asserted that Ethiopia is a very dangerous country for travellers. This is the first time that he has left the capital, in all his twenty-six years, and he hopes never to be forced to leave it again.

Jock’s condition is not reassuring tonight. I have misgivings about his ability to cope with our last lap across the high plateau of Manz.

N
OT SINCE LEAVING Asmara have I seen anything like the crowds that were coming into Dessie this morning. As we descended a steep path through thick eucalyptus woods our pace was slowed by the opposing ‘rush-hour’ traffic of hundreds of pushing humans, scurrying flocks of goats and sheep, scores of laden donkeys, horses and mules and many men and a few women riders, each with an attendant gun-bearer. This province seems to have an unusually big population of packhorses, pack-mules and
riding-mules
.

At the foot of the mountain we crossed a bright green, semi-waterlogged valley where we were joined by a caravan of six men, ten donkeys, five horses and three mules, on their way home from yesterday’s market. As usual, Jock was keen to trot in the lead – but, alarmingly, he soon lagged behind with the slowest of the donkeys.

A long, tough climb took us to a high pass from which our track dipped and rose through a magnificent wilderness of broken mountains. But it never dipped very far and we were steadily gaining altitude.

Since noon the sky had been cloudy and at 3.30 one shattering clap of thunder was followed by a rainstorm that came sweeping across the slopes before an icy wind with the force of a waterfall. Immediately I was soaked and my
companions
, now wrapped in heavy blankets, were very concerned about my pathetic state – which was even more pathetic than they realised, for my flea-bag and Huskies on Jock’s back were also being saturated. Here we were at about 10,000 feet and soon the rain turned to painful hail as we sloshed muddily through a premature twilight.

At five o’clock this cluster of compounds appeared on the mountainside above the track and as I slid with Jock up the precipitous path an amiable old man, carrying two new-born lambs, shouted an invitation above the roar of the wind and led us into this already overcrowded
tukul
. It is the biggest hut I have stayed in – some fifty feet in circumference – and it now contains nine humans, one mule, two horses, three donkeys and innumerable sheep, lambs, goats, kids, cocks and hens. They all make such a din – especially the kids and lambs – that one can hardly hear oneself think.

The design of this
tukul
is exceptionally complicated. Its outer circle
accommodates
the livestock – except for one ‘kitchen’ section, where a cooking fire burns – and the stabling for mules, horses and donkeys is lower than the rest, so that their heads are almost on a level with the floor of the (theoretically) human preserve, where their fodder is thrown in heaps.

When we arrived extra wood was piled on the ‘sitting-room’ fire and I have spent the past two hours attempting, rather unsuccessfully, to dry my sodden clothes and flea-bag.

The saddest date – for here I am parting from Jock.

Last night my sleep was somewhat disturbed by dampness, coldness and the occasional sheep or goat strolling over me. During the small hours I woke, reached for my torch and felt a disconcerting substance under my hand; it proved to be the afterbirth of a ewe, who had just lambed by my ear.

When we set out at 6.30 it was a cool, bright and very lovely morning, with a pale blue sky faintly cloud-streaked above wide brown sweeps of mountain. A few round stone huts were visible in the distance and on some lower slopes grew a scattering of twisted trees that might have been evergreen oaks. There was an oddly Scottish feel here. Acres of a green-brown herb, growing densely in little bushes, gave the illusion of heather and outcrops of silver-grey rock gleamed on the peat-dark soil.

Our track continued to climb steadily and I was alarmed to see Jock making heavy weather of it at the start of the day. When we came to a stone shelter where two little boys were selling pint tumblers of tea I stopped and led Jock to a grassy patch – but he wouldn’t eat.

There were two other travellers already in the hut, chewing hard
dabo
with their tea and, as I drank, a pathetic family group came slowly up the track. The wife was horribly blind – her eyes, face and neck were covered in open sores
– and she was being guided by a daughter of about twelve who walked ahead holding over her shoulder a long
dula
to which her mother clung nervously, whimpering with misery every time she stumbled on the rough path. The father was an advanced tubercular case. After each bout of coughing he wiped his bloodstained mouth with the end of his threadbare
shamma
and his sunken eyes held an expression of hopelessness that was more harrowing than any physical symptom. He didn’t even beg medicine from the
faranj
. Indeed, when I paid for the family’s teas and gave them my own
dabo
he looked utterly bewildered, as though this minute shred of good luck was something entirely new in his life. Clearly, both he and his wife are dying on their feet. One can only pray that they die soon.

Jock and I continued with the two men and their donkeys and half-an-hour later we were overtaken by another caravan of five men, four horses, twelve donkeys and a mule. This party was returning home from Dessie market so most of the animals were unladen; only a few donkeys carried blocks of salt or sacks of raw cotton.

The track fell steeply into a narrow valley, before climbing to a windy pass strewn with drifts of unmelted hail. Here we must have been at about 11,500 feet and we got little heat from the bright sun. On this Semienesque plateau only giant lobelias grew on the level turf, yet there was no Semien atmosphere of desolation and we met several heavily-laden caravans coming towards Dessie. The view from the edge of the plateau was overwhelming; but my appreciation of Ethiopia’s unique magnificence is now tinged with sadness for in less than two weeks I will have come to the end of the road.

As we descended a few compounds appeared, amidst broad strips of
ploughland
and green pastures. Then the track switchbacked over mountain after mountain and at each ascent Jock moved more and more slowly – until at last, near the provincial border of Wollo and Shoa, he stopped at the foot of a hill, hung his head and could go no further.

By now I had established the usual comradeship of the track with my
companions
and immediately an agreeable man named Haile Malakot, who seemed to be in a position of some authority, ordered a youth to transfer my sack to one of the free donkeys. Jock then continued wearily and I followed with a heavy heart. Obviously he is so out of condition that he needs a month’s rest, with top-quality feeding.

We arrived here soon after five o’clock and, judging by the temperature and vegetation, I should think we must be at about 9,000 feet. This settlement stands in
the middle of a circular, undulating, fertile plateau, bounded on three sides by high mountains, and Haile Malakot’s compound is by far the biggest for it contains three dwellings, two stables and two well-filled granaries. My host is the local headman, yet even so his
tukul
is shared with horses, calves, sheep and a mule.

Every local detail interests me as I have decided to leave Jock here and to take a donkey instead. Haile Malakot will gain about £12 on the exchange but he is welcome to it, for I feel sure that he will treat Jock properly. I have carefully inspected his horses and donkeys, who are in good condition, with not a sore among them. Another encouraging sign was the welcome given him by his dog as we approached the compound. This big, black, woolly creature (an uncommon type) came bounding and tail-wagging to greet his master, though most highland dogs cower and tremble when their owners appear.

The return of the travellers occasioned much kissing and many elaborate greetings all round, especially between Haile Malakot and his five small children. Instead of those children’s presents which would have been brought from the city in a more affluent society, the youngsters got hunks of stale
dabo
, left uneaten by their father on his way, which were received with delighted grins and low bows. Their mother was given a present of several cheap, gaudy glass bangles, imported from Czechoslovakia.

Haile Malakot’s family is one of the nicest I have stayed with; depressed as I am tonight, I do realise how lucky we were to meet him on this crucial day. At supper-time it became apparent that he has a total of nine children, four of whom are large, and it’s difficult now to imagine everyone finding sleeping space in this
tukul
. But no doubt we’ll eventually get huddled down somehow.

We did eventually get huddled down somehow and I slept quite well, though children were packed so closely around me that I could hardly wriggle my toes. When nature called me to the compound during the small hours it was
impossible
not to waken everyone. The exit was blocked by a complicated web of hide thongs, devised to keep the horses from moving into our compartment, and as I hesitated Haile Malakot impatiently pointed to the animal compartment, where I had earlier heard several human urinations in progress. Obediently
manoeuvring
under the thongs I added my mite.

At 5.30 my hostess and her eldest daughter rose to begin the day’s
grain-grinding
in one corner of the dark
tukul
. Inevitably they walked on me en route, so I lay awake wondering how many hours a highland woman spends each day
at this task. It is strenuous work, but this morning mother and daughter were singing softly and happily, as they settled down to it. The rubbing of stone on stone, with grain between, and the calls of shepherd boys in the mountains are the two sounds of Ethiopia that I shall never forget.

As soon as it was faintly light I started to pack, crawling over and around various recumbent bodies. Then Haile Malakot rose, to let the animals out and fetch my chosen donkey. I didn’t say goodbye to Jock, who went cantering off with the rest to enjoy a peaceful day on rich pastures.

Yesterday I had been impressed by the sturdiness and docility of one
particular
donkey, who now stood meekly while being loaded, and then went trotting briskly before the little boy who led me on to the path for Worra Ilu. However, when the child had turned back disillusion set in. Sturdy this creature certainly is, but nothing less docile can ever have stood on four legs. Very soon I had named him Satan.

To begin with I tried to lead the devil; but highland donkeys are never led, so he reacted by laying back his ears, rolling his eyes malevolently and riveting himself to Mother Earth. For some moments we remained thus, personifying Immovable Object and Irresistible Force. Naturally, Immovable Object won that round, so Irresistible Force decided to take rear action. Administering a whack on the rump, I uttered a fierce appropriate sound in my best Amharic – whereupon Satan wheeled abruptly and headed for home at a gallop. When I had cut off his retreat another whack sent him trotting – momentarily – in the right direction. What I needed now was one of those mountain paths off which you cannot move; on a plateau Satan held all the trumps for there was nothing to prevent him from going wherever the fancy led him.

Over the next ten miles I had to pursue Satan repeatedly, as he fled to east, west or north. Oddly, south seemed the one point of the compass to which he could not reconcile himself. Nor did the weather help. It had been heavily overcast when we started out and soon a gale was sweeping sheets of sleety rain across the plateau and turning the ground to slippery, sticky black mud, which meant that every step demanded twice the normal expenditure of energy. Despite my exertions I quickly became so numb that my stiff fingers couldn’t open the buttons of my shirt-pocket. Not even in the Semiens have I experienced such intense cold.

Instead of adjusting to his new situation Satan became increasingly
xenophobic
and when we arrived here I felt too demoralised to continue without a donkey-boy – though I guessed that it wouldn’t be easy to find anyone willing to accompany me into Manz.

Worra Ilu, the birthplace of the Empress Zauditu, is the usual spread-out collection of tin-roofed mud hovels, set among blue-gums. The ‘hotel’ is a tiny doss-house, run by the Amharic wife of a Yemeni trader who settled in Ethiopia fifteen years ago. This man now speaks fluent Amharinya and has successfully adapted himself to the local way of life. These Yemeni small-town traders are more integrated with the highlanders than any other foreigners, yet the moment I met Hussein I was aware of a strong bond between us. He doesn’t speak one word of English, but he and I have established the kind of intuitive
understanding
that could never exist between me and the local English-speakers. As I now feel so at ease with the highlanders this is a significant measure of the
extraordinary
degree of ‘ingrown-ness’ that marks their character.

I had just changed from my soaked shirt into my slightly less soaked jacket when Worra Ilu’s four hundred schoolchildren, freed for their midday meal, ‘discovered’ me. Not since my arrival at Mai Cheneta have I been so
enthusiastically
mobbed. Despite this town being only two days’ walk from Dessie few of these children had ever before seen a white person (though their parents must have seen many Italians) and, because education of a sort has made them aware of the
faranj
world, they were avid to meet a real live European. For seven hours I was submerged by them, often almost to the point of suffocation, as scores of bodies seethed around me. When it was time for afternoon classes the eleven teachers found it impossible to reclaim their pupils from my ‘hotel’, where the senior boys were packing the restaurant–kitchen–bedroom, while the juniors rioted outside the door, impatient for their glimpse of the
faranj
. As the teachers were scarcely less interested than the children I was invited to the new school – a handsome stone building – to make a lecture tour of the classrooms, so my afternoon was even more exhausting than it would have been had I continued towards Manz with Satan.