In Ethiopia with a Mule (38 page)

Hurrying out to join the welcoming party, we saw a procession of five coming slowly through the blue-gums. Only the twenty-year-old bridegroom was riding, on a mule caparisoned with that shabby magnificence so characteristic of all highland festivals; the weary animal, draped in frayed cloth-of-gold, wore high plumes of crimson ostrich feathers between his ears and silver bells were sweetly jangling on bridle and saddle. As highland stirrups are designed to
accommodate
only the big toe the groom paused here to put on his smart new wedding shoes, which had been slung around the best man’s neck.

The bride’s friends advanced to greet the party and danced slowly backwards towards the compound, facing the groom and confining themselves to the chaste, stylised movements customary at this stage. On every side men were
chanting gravely and groups of women were ululating in turn. Then, as the groom dismounted, all the women united to produce a beautifully trembling wave of sound that seemed to come from some invisible, far-away choir.

Next there was a formal delay. The bride’s father must hesitate before receiving the groom, to show affection for his daughter and doubt about the young man’s worthiness to be allied with such a notable family. I hoped that the delay would be brief since the groom and his friends, each of whom was carrying a heavy rifle, looked utterly exhausted. Apparently Father-in-law-to-be thought so too, and soon the five were sitting in the tent around an enormous jar of specially brewed ‘groom’s beer’.

In theory the couple had not yet met, though actually they knew each other quite well, and now six maidens, all dressed alike, filed into the tent to sit in an embarrassed row opposite the groom’s party. It was easy to recognise the agitated bride, but by tradition these girls are curtained off from general view and the best man ritually ‘finds’ the bride and triumphantly carries her on his shoulders to the groom. This was the only unenjoyable part of the ceremony. The wretched fourteen-year-old burst into tears on being presented to her future husband, and he looked almost equally unhappy as he turned away abruptly to accept another horn tankard of
talla
.

The mutual misery of the couple was understandable, since a highland
marriage
-night is often a semi-public test of the will-power and physical strength of both partners. In some regions the girl is taught to defend her virginity as though she were being threatened with rape: yet she knows that should her husband prove unequal to the occasion – as decent highlanders often do, being inhibited rather than stimulated by their bride’s terrified belligerence – he will request his best man to provide the proof of virginity for display to the eagerly-waiting guests. The wedding-night takes place at the home of the groom’s family, to which this party would ride next day, so the couple had to live through another twenty-four hours of suspense.

When I announced my departure there were many invitations to stay the night – which I had to decline, as my absence might have caused anxiety in Addis.

Walking home, I reflected that in the capital one can talk to twenty
English-speaking
Ethiopians during the day and find nineteen so addled by the synthetic urban atmosphere that with them genuine communication on any level is
impossible
. Yet among non-English-speaking villagers genuine communication can very soon be established, mysteriously but unmistakably, on that basic level
where ideas are excluded but sincerity of feeling has full scope. I realised also that in Ethiopia, more than in any other country I know, this sort of rapport must be worked for, unconsciously. (Probably it would forever elude one if
consciously
pursued.) Remembering my first weeks in the country, and comparing them with that afternoon, I marvelled at the contrast. Granted the people around Addis are a little less ingrown than the isolated peasants of the north, yet this does not fully explain the change in my relationship with the highlanders. Superficially it was a change that I alone had wrought; but if these strange, aloof Tigreans and Amharas had not revealed a fundamental responsiveness, through countless tiny details, I could never have built my side of the bridge.

A traveller who does not speak their language cannot presume to claim any deep understanding of the Ethiopian highlanders. But it is the gradual growth of affection for another race, rather than the walking of a thousand miles or the climbing of a hundred mountains, that is the real achievement and the richest reward of such a journey. 

I owe gratitude

To Her Highness Leilt Aida Desta, whose sympathetic co-operation made many rough ways smooth.

To the scores of highland peasants without whose hospitality I could not have survived.

To His Excellency Sir Thomas Bromley and Lady Bromley; Mr Robert Swann, Councillor; Mr George Peel, Consul, British Embassy, Addis Ababa, who
generously
gave every assistance to the Irishwoman.

To Major and Mrs John Bromley, British Consulate, Asmara, whose
friendship
supported me throughout my trek.

To Mr and Mrs Marcel Landey, of ECA, who for five weeks were my
long-suffering
hosts in Addis Ababa.

To the many other Ethiopians and
faranjs
who assisted and encouraged me in a variety of ways.

And to The Honourable Jock, whose fidelity, intelligence and endurance were for three months my main support.

D
ERVLA MURPHY’S FIRST BOOK,
Full Tilt:
From Ireland to India with a Bicycle
, was published in 1965. Over twenty other titles have followed, including an account of travels in Northern Ireland during the 1970s, a volume against nuclear power, a consideration of race relations in England during the 1980s and a highly-acclaimed autobiography,
Wheels Within Wheels
. Dervla has won worldwide praise for her writing and many awards, including the
Christopher
Ewart-Biggs Memorial Prize.

Now in her early eighties, she continues to travel around the world, happily setting off to trek in remote mountains, and remains passionate about politics, conservation, bicycling and beer.

Dervla Murphy was born in 1931 in Co. Waterford, where she still lives when not travelling. Her daughter, Rachel, and three young granddaughters live in Italy and join Dervla on her travels when possible.

61 Exmouth Market, London EC1R 4QL
Email: [email protected]

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