by Tahir Shah
Samson stopped mid-sentence and then took off his wristwatch and put it on the table.
“They live second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour until...”
“Until what?”
“Until their time runs out.”
EIGHT
Sheba’s Gold
“Our excitement was so intense, as we saw the way to Solomon’s treasure chamber at last thrown open, that I for one began to tremble and shake.”
Henry Rider Haggard, King Solomon’s Mines
Early next morning at the roadside bar, a group of six Tigrayan girls sat at the back, preening themselves and spreading their legs as widely as they could. They were improbably dressed in white coats, the kind which doctors wear in hospitals, and their feet were strapped into high heels. It was five o’clock but as far as they were concerned the night shift hadn’t ended. I glanced over at them as I sat waiting for Bahru to get the Emperor’s Jeep warmed up. The girls looked away, pretending to be coy, though they knew better than I that coyness was a quality incompatible with their trade.
I watched as a truck driver staggered over to one of them. His shirt-front was spattered with dried vomit and his waxy face was peppered with sores. The Tigrayan woman didn’t seem put off by her customer’s appearance. First he flirted and she bargained, and then he bargained and she flirted. Eventually they struck a deal. The client handed over his cash, bought a bottle of Coca Cola, and followed the girl into a back room. I asked Samson why a man with an obvious taste for stronger liquor would have wasted his money on Coke.
“In the countryside,” he said, “some people believe that if you wash your groin with Coca Cola you won’t get Aids. The prostitutes insist on it.”
The night before, the bedbugs had been ferocious. My face and shoulders were so badly bitten that I looked as if I had a chronic skin disease. Samson had been attacked by insects as well, but he didn’t complain. We needed hardening up, he said sternly, if we were ever to make it to Tullu Wallel and Frank Hayter’s mine-shafts. As we spent more time together, Samson and I developed a curious relationship. Each of us saw it as his mission to force discomfort on the other. Rather like Inspector Clouseau’s manservant, Kato, Samson knew he was making me stronger by causing me pain. I never quite knew if he was doing it out of loyalty or cruelty. For my part I felt a deep sadistic urge come over me whenever I saw Samson flagging. I couldn’t help it. If he suggested we rest at seven, I insisted we continue until ten; and each morning I forced him to take a freezing cold shower before the day’s start. He had stopped complaining long ago, well aware that a sadist is empowered by the slightest hint of victory.
We left the white-coated whores to their business and drove out of the village. The sun would soon be rising, forcing the girls back into the shadows. It was good to be moving again. Bahru shifted the gears restlessly, coaxing the vehicle west towards Lalibela. As the Emperor’s Jeep ground its way around the potholes, I lay stretched out in the back watching the green landscape unfold. The road wound its way upwards, round one hairpin bend after another. Most of the hillsides were cultivated, their reddish-brown soil sprouting with thick crops of maize and wheat. The more I saw of Ethiopia’s rural areas, the more confused I became about the country’s image. In the West everyone thinks of Ethiopia as a place of starvation and famine, but although there are isolated pockets of desert, most of the country is lush.
We stopped at the town of Dilbe. Bahru was urgently in need of some qat. As he tottered off towards the market Samson and I got out of the Jeep to stretch our legs. Nearby stood a bar, little more than a lean-to, that served thimble-sized cups of coffee made with an Italian espresso machine. Mussolini’s invasion in 1935 had brought nothing but misery to Ethiopia, nothing that is, except for espresso machines. They can be found even in the smallest towns and they are the only pieces of machinery in the country which never break down.
As the qat began to take effect, Bahru’s foot grew heavier on the accelerator. Despite the terrible road surface we raced along at an impressive speed. Chewing furiously at the dark green leaves, his pupils dilating, Bahru bragged that the engine had been overhauled during the night. Samson said that Bahru hadn’t wanted to ask me for money so he’d paid for the overhaul himself. I checked my bags to see that they were all still there.
“What exactly did he sell?”
Samson translated the question into Amharic, and Bahru spat out an answer.
“What did he say?”
“He said he sold three of the brake-pads,” replied Samson.
A pair of white girls were sitting by the side of the road. They were in their early twenties and their hair was matted and their skin grimed with dirt. They had spent the night in the open. At twilight the day before, the bus they were taking had swerved to miss another. Luck had been on their side — it was the oncoming bus, not theirs, that had gone over the cliff. When the Emperor’s Jeep rolled to a stop, one of the girls pointed to the wreckage in the ravine below.
“It was like a horror film,” she said. “The other bus had no choice but to go off the road. When our driver realized he was still alive, he burst out laughing and honked the horn. He drove on, but we wanted to stay and help the injured and the dying. So he left us here.”
“Dead bodies were strewn everywhere,” added the other girl. “Some of the survivors were lying face down, praying to God. Dozens of them were screaming. One woman had lost all the fingers from her right hand and she couldn’t speak. She was in shock. We didn’t have any medical supplies, and even if we had had some there wasn’t much we could do. Still we did our best to comfort the injured, until help arrived.” She paused and stared at the ground. “But no one ever came.”
Samson and I got out of the car and looked over the edge of the cliff. Fifty feet below, the mangled white shell of a bus lay in a ditch. There were seven or eight bodies scattered on the ground near the vehicle, and I could make out several survivors huddled together under a tree.
We have to get word to Lalibela,” said the first girl. “Someone there will come and help.”
We told the girls to get in. Then Samson and I exchanged a worried glance. We both knew that the chance of anyone in Lalibela volunteering to help was remote, and that it wouldn’t be long before the local villagers descended to strip what they could from the wreckage.
The first thing we noticed in Lalibela were the flies. They swarmed over us like locusts, getting in our ears, up our nostrils and in our mouths. For once, I kept my mouth shut. Samson said he’d go and find an aid organization with medical supplies and he got out of the car. Within seconds, he disappeared in a cloud of flies. I told him to hurry. I was impatient to locate the Gold of Sheba.
Lalibela contains twelve churches hewn from the living rock. They may not be as grand as the monuments of the Nabateans at Petra, or on such a scale as the Pyramids, but they are equally mysterious and very beautiful. Were it not for its location, Lalibela would be swamped with tourists.
The story goes that in the twelfth century, during the rule of the Zagwe dynasty, a male child was born to the Queen. The King had died, and the boy’s elder brother ruled as regent. Soon after the birth of her second son, the Queen noticed that his cradle was infested with a swarm of bees. She recalled an ancient Ethiopian belief which says that the animal world can foretell the arrival of true nobility. In Ethiopia children are generally named some days after their birth, once their character has shown itself. The Queen thought that the bees were a sign, and so she named her second son Lalibela, “the man whose sovereignty is recognized by bees”.
Years passed, and Lalibela’s brother grew jealous. Fearing that his younger brother would usurp him, he had him poisoned. Lalibela drank the poison and fell into a deep sleep. As he slept, he dreamed that he was taken by angels to the first, second and third heavens. Then God spoke, telling Lalibela to return to earth and to build fabulous churches, the like of which the world had never seen before. When Lalibela awoke, his brother paid homage t
o him, declaring him to be the true king. Then Lalibela gathered together stonemasons and craftsmen, and ordered them to start carving the rock. During the day they worked with great speed, and during the night the work was carried on by angels.
The twelve churches that Lalibela created are laid out in two main clusters. Each building is unique and can only be appreciated by looking at the space around it. Where there is empty space there was once rock. All the churches were carved out of the surrounding red volcanic tuff.
After an hour of waiting for Samson to reappear, I decided to continue the search for the Gold of Sheba alone. Leaving Bahru to chew qat in the shade, I began to make my way to the northern cluster of churches. Within five strides of the Jeep, I was surrounded by a gaggle of boys. They spoke good English, which is rare in Ethiopia, and all of them wanted to be my guide. I said that I wanted to see the Gold of Sheba. I expected blank looks, but to my surprise they all nodded keenly. Then a boy of about eight with bloodied knees spoke for the rest:
“The Gold of Sheba is kept in a big box, which King Lalibela himself made. It’s locked and guarded by the priest at Bet Giyorgis.”
The children were adamant that only one of them could be my guide. That was the rule. They could decide amongst themselves by fighting, one said, but it would take time and cause them pain. It was better that I choose my guide as quickly as I could. A small boy stood a little apart from the group, clearly afraid that he would be beaten by the others. Darker-skinned than the rest, he was also the weakest. I chose him, and the others scowled.
I asked the boy his name. He had a high-pitched voice and a cheeky smile. He said he was called Amaya, and that his mother and father were dead, so now he lived with his grandmother who was blind.
We set off down the narrow path which led through tall, lush elephant grass towards the northern churches. Amaya rambled on in English, telling me about life in Lalibela and skipping to keep up. He took me first to the biggest church, Bet Medhane Alem, “Savior of the World”. The church stands in a great courtyard carved out of the volcanic rock, and the building itself is encircled by columns, with many more inside its carved interior.
In 1521, a Portuguese priest, Francisco Álvares, arrived in Lalibela and was astonished by what he saw. Yet when he came to write his journals, he was convinced that no one would believe his description. In A True Relation of the Lands of Prester John, he explains: “It wearied me to write more of these works, because it seemed to me that they will accuse me of untruth... there is much more than I have already written, and I have left it that they may not tax me with it being falsehood.”
A few minutes from Bet Medhane we came to the church of Bet Maryam. Each of the churches has its own sacred well. That at Bet Maryam is said to contain healing water which has the power to make barren women fertile. Inside, the arches are adorned with carvings and fabulous frescoes, some of which bear the Star of David. Elsewhere I saw ventilation holes carved in the shape of swastikas, evidence of ancient trade routes between Africa and the Indian subcontinent.
On the southern side of Bet Maryam a tunnel led us to more churches. Among them is the most sacred chapel of all, the Selassie Chapel, reputedly the resting-place of King Lalibela himself. Then Amaya led the way to Bet Giyorgis.
Lalibela’s Church of St George is one of the true wonders of the world. If it were in any other country, it would be surrounded by curio-sellers and hot-dog stalls. Guided tours would be conducted, and a five-star hotel erected to overlook it. Thankfully, it’s in the middle of nowhere and so has been left alone. Bet Giyorgis is carved in the shape of a Greek cross, and it stands on a three-tiered plinth. Legend has it that when King Lalibela had completed his churches St George galloped up on a magnificent white steed. He was furious with the king for not dedicating a church to him. And so King Lalibela ordered one more church to be built in honor of Ethiopia’s patron saint.
As he led me through a tunnel to the church’s entrance, Amaya tugged at my shirt sleeve.
“This is where the Gold of Sheba is kept,” he whispered.
We ascended a flight of broad steps, removed our shoes and called out for the priest. The ceiling of the church was about twenty feet high, its interior square chamber carved out from the rock, with a shrouded cube — the Holy of Holies — in the centre of the room. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, a man in deep purple robes stepped from the shadows. He had dark, sorrowful eyes and his beard was flecked with gray. I asked Amaya to translate, but the priest butted in, saying he understood English. There was no need for the boy, he said.
“I have come on a long journey from America,” I replied, as no one in Ethiopia ever seemed very impressed by a journey begun in England.
The priest’s eyes widened.
“Ah,” he said, “America. America is good.”
“I’ve come to Lalibela to see a precious treasure. I’ve heard you have that treasure here.”
He nodded.
“I am looking for the Gold of Sheba.”
The priest turned and motioned to a dark wooden coffer, sealed with an unusual lock which seemed to be fastened with a system of wooden levers and bolts.
“The Gold of Sheba is kept in there,” he said. “The box was made by King Lalibela. It is sacred and cannot be seen by anyone.”
I had come a long way to see the Gold of Sheba and I was not going to be thwarted by religious bureaucracy. I looked down at Amaya and saw him rubbing his fingers together. I fumbled in my coat pocket. The priest’s tongue probed the hairs around his mouth, like that of a snake testing the air.
“I’d be willing to make a suitable donation,” I said obsequiously.
A moment later, the priest was opening the lock. He began by loosening a pair of large wooden screws. I leant forward to get a better look, but he turned his back to me and blocked my view. Minutes later he stepped back. In his hand was an Ethiopian cross intricately worked in gold.
“This is the Gold of Sheba.”
Holding the crucifix high above his head like a battle standard, the priest tilted it to catch the shaft of sun coming through the doorway. Amaya and I stumbled backwards as the bolt of light dazzled us. Although not as large as some other Ethiopian crosses, the Gold of Sheba was magnificent. The priest deciphered its complex design. An intricate cross lay at its centre, surrounded by twelve bosses that represented the Apostles of Christ. On the outer edge were a pair of birds that looked like hoopoes. The priest explained that they were doves from Noah’s Ark.
“You are the first foreigner ever to set eyes on this sacred cross,” said the priest untruthfully. “A man whose genius shines as brightly as yours, as brightly as the Gold of Sheba itself, is the kind of man who rewards true beauty when he sees it.”
“Where is the cross from?”
“It was crafted in the highlands.”
“By King Lalibela?”
“No, no,” said the priest, “long before Lalibela. The gold was brought from Judah. The gold in the cross came from the Great Temple in Judah.”
“The Temple of Solomon, in Jerusalem?”
“Yes, that is right,” he replied, twisting the shaft of the cross in his fingers. “An Ethiopian went to Judah after Solomon’s death and brought back three of the gold treasures.”
“The hoards mentioned in the Copper Scroll?”
The priest said nothing, but he smiled.
I had listened to him with mounting suspicion. How tempting it was to believe his tale. The idea of Solomon’s gold returning from the land of the Israelites to Ethiopia was wonderful – a completed circle. But it was implausible, and I had found no mention of the legend elsewhere. I asked the priest where he thought the gold for the temple in Jerusalem had been mined. He shook his head.
“What does it matter where the gold came from? More important is what happened to it when the Temple of Solomon was destroyed.”
Saying this, he laid the Gold of Sheba back in its box and fastened the lock.
“There are thieves,”
he said furtively. “Foreign thieves!”
Amaya tugged at my sleeve. There had been a terrible theft in Lalibela, he said. Then the priest took up the story. In 1997, an 800-year-old solid gold cross that was kept in the Church of Bet Medhane Alem went missing. It weighed more than fourteen pounds, and was one of the greatest Ethiopian treasures. When the theft was discovered, the small community was plunged into mourning. Lalibela’s people whipped themselves into a frenzy of grief, pleading with God to help them. Suspicion fell on the head priest, who was arrested and taken away. Some said he was tortured; everyone believed he was involved. Months went by and there was no word, no sight of the cross. The priest had not confessed. Then news came when it was least expected. The cross was discovered being smuggled into Belgium, where it had been sold to an unsuspecting purchaser. The Ethiopian government had to pay $25,000 to get it back.
Before we could leave the church, the priest fished out a collection tin from the folds of his robes and looked at me expectantly. I folded a fifty birr note and stuffed it through the slot in the lid of the tin. The priest smiled in gratitude and then he was gone.
A horde of beggars shuffled towards us as we walked out of the church. Like Lalibela s flies, they longed for sustenance. At the back of the pack was a very old woman. She was stooped low, her spine twisted and bent, and her body was shrouded in rags. Around her neck there hung an enormous growth, the size and shape of a coconut.
“The others say she’s a witch,” said Amaya, “that she talks to the Devil at night.”