In Ethiopia with a Mule (36 page)

On the rare occasions when I lose my temper the loss is total and I was shaking with rage as we entered the mud shack ‘police station’. The police CO matched his subordinates. He sat behind a wobbly desk in a dark little room, wearing a four-day beard and a torn army great-coat under his
shamma
. Pushing my way through a group of arguing men I told him exactly what I thought of the Mehal Meda police force. Then insult was indeed added to injury, for the man who had arrested me said sneeringly, ‘Don’t be so afraid!’ Glaring, I snapped that fear was the last emotion likely to be aroused in me by such a dishevelled bunch of no-goods; and I observed spitefully that he and his companions would have their own reasons to be afraid when I reported this incident to the Addis authorities. For good measure I threw in the names of Leilt Aida, Ras Mangasha and Iskander Desta – whereupon everyone stopped yelling at me.

After a moment’s silence, the CO remarked that I had better see the local Governor. I was then conducted to a recently-built shack, where a neatly-dressed but unimposing man sat rather self-consciously behind a brand-new,
mock-mahogany
desk with a pile of virginal ledgers on either side of the blotting pad. He was soon taken far out of his depth by the situation, as four men were
simultaneously
giving him different versions of the story of my arrest. He brusquely signed that I was to sit on a bench by the wall and wait.

Ten minutes later an adequate interpreter appeared. Amsalu is the local Medical Officer and a most agreeable young man. He begged me not to be so angry, though my rage had already gone off the boil, and he clearly explained the situation to the Governor, Ato Balatchaw. Now the Big Man was awkwardly placed. To release me would be to admit that I had been ‘wrongfully detained’; to keep me in custody, after all this talk about royalty, might prove calamitous. I suggested, as an honourable compromise, that Leilt Aida be telephoned by
way of establishing my credentials. However, Mehal Meda has no telephone, so after much discussion and deliberation it was decided that a police officer would accompany me to Molale tomorrow morning and telephone Makalle from there. This satisfied everyone – though the Governor looked slightly apprehensive at the prospect of my discussing his police force with Leilt Aida.

I was then escorted back to a subdued CO who spent the next forty minutes ‘taking my statement’ for the records, with Amsalu’s assistance. Obviously my account of the incident was being carefully edited and I would give a lot to know what sort of statement I signed at the end of this performance.

I am now relaxing in a minute ‘hotel’. Its one earth-floored room contains two small iron-beds, with broken springs and revolting sheets. Bugs abound and the wallpaper consists of pictures from American, English, Italian and French magazines, many of which have been stuck on upside-down.

Mehal Meda is suffering from collective guilt this evening. Crowds of men and women have come to call, deploring my unlucky encounter, emphasising that none of the policemen involved was a Manze and consoling me with gifts of
talla
,
tej
, coffee, tea, roasted grain, stewed beans, curds and hard-boiled eggs. Nowhere in the highlands have I met with greater kindness.

Meanwhile Amsalu and the local teachers have been asking me the usual questions about my own country and my impressions of their country. When Dr Donald Levine was mentioned affectionate smiles lit up the grave faces of the non-English speakers who were sitting around us and one elderly man asked eagerly if I knew ‘Dr Donald’. I replied that I hadn’t the honour to know him personally but that I had read his book, and at once Amsalu seized my arm and begged me to send him a copy. He is prepared to spend almost a month’s salary on it, but inevitably
Wax
and
Gold
has been banned in Ethiopia. This political censorship of books seems to me a serious mistake, for it arouses suspicions that things are more rotten in the state of Ethiopia than they actually are. Several English-speakers have asked me what scandalous governmental secrets are revealed in
Wax and Gold
, and they look understandably bewildered when I explain that it is not an exposure of official iniquities but a scholarly study of their culture at its present stage of transition.

When I opened my notebook, for Amsalu to write his name and address on the back page, I noticed a folded bit of paper tucked away there. Examining it, I found that it was the ineffectual chit from the Governor of Lalibela to the priests of Imrahanna Kristos so I tossed it towards a pile of litter on the table. Then Amsalu caught sight of the Amharic script and the countless seals and stamps
that bedeck every Ethiopian document, however insignificant, and glancing through it he exclaimed, ‘But
this
would have done the police, instead of your passport!’ I stared at him, and confessed that
faranjs
don’t think of offering chits as substitutes for passports; but he insisted that any officially stamped paper serves the purpose and said that if we brought this chit to the Governor’s home I would immediately be freed.

The night wind felt icy as the four teachers walked with me through the village. Approaching the Governor’s shack we heard horrible noises emanating from his transistor radio and when Amsalu shouted loudly for a servant to come to announce us no one could hear him. I suggested knocking on the tin door but this appalled my companions, as it is bad manners for the
hoi-polloi
to
communicate
directly with a Big Man. However, when Amsalu had again shouted unavailingly, several times, I gave up pandering to local etiquette and hammered the tin sheets resoundingly.

At once Ato Balatchaw appeared, wrapped in his
shamma
. He beckoned us crossly into his living-room, where an apologetic Amsalu produced the precious chit – and, realising that I need not discuss his police force with Leilt Aida, the Governor stopped being cross. Five minutes later we were departing, with a written permit for me to proceed to Molale unescorted. It surprised me to find that a piece of highland ‘official business’ could be transacted so briskly.

Both geographically and historically there is a certain fitness about trekking through this region towards the end of my journey. In Manz the beauty of these highlands reaches a triumphant crescendo of light, space, colouring and formation; and here one is in the homeland of the House of Shoa, whose head now occupies the Solomonic Throne.

If the highlands in general seem remote from the rest of the world, Manz in particular seems remote even from the rest of the highlands. Its atmosphere is unique. This is partly because of physical differences – well-built stone dwellings replace flimsy
tukuls
, heavy, dark woollen cloaks are used instead of
shammas
, the average altitude is 10,000 feet – and partly because of the character of the people, who seem to have more individuality than most highlanders. They also seem more mentally alert, more physically vigorous and more arrogant. Even within Manz, communication between the three districts has always been difficult because of the chasms that split the plateau and today we crossed three in fifteen miles. This morning crowds were coming to market as we approached
the first gorge. It is inhabited by Gelada baboons, scores of whom were sitting near the path saying uncomplimentary things to the passers-by, and at its head is a hundred-foot waterfall which must be gloriously exciting during the rains. Most of the women were wearing brown, or brown and black, ankle-length gowns and the barefooted men, in their long, rough, brown cloaks, looked like so many Franciscans. The more prosperous also wore sheepskin capes around their shoulders for at this height the mornings are bitterly cold.

The ascent from the bottom of the third gorge was exhilaratingly difficult. Assefa and Satan went a long way round while I rock-climbed straight up the smooth, slightly sloping grey cliff. With Addis so near, I am getting an extra, bitter-sweet pleasure from every highland experience.

Beyond the gorges our track wound between low, brown hills, before bringing us on to a wide plain planted with barley – some silver-green, some ripely golden. Here we began to meet the crowds returning from Molale market. Many women as well as men were riding on mules, who wore silver necklaces and most people greeted me with bows and smiles. I noticed an unusual variety of skin-colour, from almost black to palest brown – which is surprising, for unlike most parts of Shoa Manz was never overrun by the Galla. Perhaps the darker-skinned
inhabitants
are the descendants of slaves captured by the renowned Manze warriors when they were recovering Galla-conquered territory for their Emperor Menelik II.

On our arrival at this little town, soon after three o’clock, Assefa abruptly announced that he was too exhausted to walk another step. Satan was also looking sorry for himself so we pushed through the still-crowded market-place to a
talla-beit
, accumulating the inevitable retinue of schoolboys. Ten minutes later the Director (Headmaster) of the school appeared in the doorway, expressed disapproval of a
faranj
drinking with the peasantry and invited me to be his guest for the night.

Ato Beda Mariam lives in a row of stable-like dwellings behind the
three-year-old
, two-storied school which is Molale’s biggest building. There are eight grades in this school (twelve is the maximum) and ten teachers cope with about four hundred pupils. Here again I found that merely knowing the name of ‘Dr Donald’ sent my status rocketing. Americans in general, and the Peace Corps in
particular
, are unpopular among Ato Beda Mariam and his staff, as they are among the majority of the English-speaking Ethiopians with whom I have discussed them. Yet in Manz Dr Levine is hardly regarded as a
faranj
, and only those who have
experienced
the highlanders’ aloofness can appreciate what a compliment this is.

My thirty-two-year-old host has been in charge of this school for the past five years. His English is excellent and I was astounded to hear that he only began his schooling at the age of seventeen. The traditional opposition to state-sponsored education is so strong in Manz that many of Molale’s pupils have run away from home and are paying for their own education by doing odd jobs in the town; but parental opposition is lessening yearly because of the infectious illusion that a state-school education means ‘instant wealth’.

Ato Beda Mariam rejoices at this change but I do not. I disagree with the argument that Ethiopia cannot afford to postpone the education of the masses until a sufficient number of adequately qualified teachers is available. Apart from two Gondares in a remote settlement, he himself is the first rural teacher I have met who possesses both the ability and the outlook required for this vocation. Nothing in this country depresses me as much as the harm being done to Ethiopia’s children by half-baked, cynical, unworthy teachers. I have become so fond of the highlanders that this problem distresses and alarms me as would the illness of a friend. It is a problem common to all ‘undeveloped countries’, but highland children seem extra vulnerable to the terrible consequences of having a mock-Western education unskilfully thrust upon them. In Asmara or Addis,
faranjs
may study statistics and be impressed by the Emperor’s zeal for educating his subjects, but in the little towns and villages one is swamped with despair when one meets either teachers or pupils. Here again one feels guilty on behalf of Western civilisation. What damage are we doing, blindly and swiftly, to those races who are being taught that because we are materially richer we must be emulated without question? What compels us to infect everyone else with our own sick urgency to change, soften and standardise? How can we have the
effrontery
to lord it over peoples who retain what we have lost – a sane awareness that what matters most is immeasurable?

Today we walked only sixteen miles, but the three-hour descent from Manz, into another low, hot river-gorge, and the tough climb to this 9,000-foot plateau have left Assefa semi-invalided and Satan too dispirited even to attempt to go home.

When we left Molale a steely sky hung low and the wind blew harsh, but soon the sun was shining and at midday the bottom of the gorge felt
equatorial
. Yet a few hours later, as I climbed the escarpment below Sali Dingai, Manz was hidden by dark clouds, thunder was crashing nearby and a sleet-laden gale was tearing at my sweat-soaked shirt. Assefa and Satan were a long way behind
so I sat near the edge of the escarpment overlooking the country we had just crossed – a scene made all the more dramatic by swiftly-moving cloud-masses and sulphurous flickerings of lightning. Then, thinking of the beauty that I had seen, even within the past eight hours, I felt very sad. Yet it is not only through their beauty that these highlands have enchanted me. I love them, too, for their challenging brutality, and had I seen the beauty without meeting the challenge I could not now feel so attached to Ethiopia. Its muscle-searing climbs and
nerve-racking
descents, its powdery dust and vicious thorns, its heat, cold, hunger and thirst, its savage precipices, treacherous paths and pathless forests – these, as much as its wide, proud, chaotic landscapes, are the characteristics that have forged the bond.

Assefa and Satan ascended by a steep, roundabout path that avoided the escarpment. Reunited, the three of us climbed from this broad ledge, over a still higher summit, to the big village of Sali Dingai – an outpost of ‘motor-road civilisation’. A new fifteen-mile track links it to the main Asmara–Dessie–Addis road and there is a daily bus-service. Where the track ends a few square shacks and a small school have recently been built; otherwise Sali Dingai remains unspoiled, though one can foresee it changing soon.

By this time Assefa and I had but a single thought and, as we searched for
talla
, a cheerful man emerged from a mud shack and invited us to help celebrate the christening of his fifth son. In the dark, straw-strewn room about forty men sat on mud benches around the walls, fondling rifles, while a minstrel played in the centre of the floor and a tall, elderly woman sang and danced with strange, fierce gaiety.