The Complete Collection of Travel Literature

by Tahir Shah

  For fifteen hundred years a company of monks have inhabited the remote monastery. They are brought as children by their parents, who believe that good fortune will be conferred on the family if a son devotes his life to God. Until recently, Ebya said, there were also three hermits who spent their lives in silent prayer. No one ever saw them, but when they died, their bodies were taken to the far side of the mountain and thrown into a cave.

  “I will show you the bodies,” he said.

  I was impatient to look at the secret manuscripts which spoke of Solomon, but I knew it would be discourteous to refuse. So we made our way to the edge of the plateau and down a narrow track that clung to the rock face. Eyba cheerfully clambered over a tree growing out of the cliff. Samson and I followed, not daring to look down. Then the young priest gestured to a narrow cave entrance and, before I could stop him, he slipped inside, calling out to us to follow.

  At the back of the cave lay several skeletons. One still had black and rotting flesh attached to it. The stench was appalling. Eyba picked up a femur and waved it around. He said big birds flew into the cave and fed on the rotting bodies.

  After another terrifying clamber back along the path, we reached a cistern. Over the centuries the monks have carved a number of them out of the plateau, some as deep as sixty feet, to collect water on the rare occasions when it rains. Eyba said the water was very fresh. He scooped up a cupful for me to drink. Just in time I noticed that the water was alive with maggots and I hastily passed it to Samson.

  It was early evening by the time we were taken to the church. The building was square in shape and made of small rectangular stones. It stood behind a wall and was surrounded by trees and patches of dried grass. It is said to be the oldest church in Africa.

  As we took off our shoes outside a monk waited in the doorway. I pushed Samson forward to begin the lengthy salutations. The monk welcomed us in a whisper. He said he had been waiting for our arrival for many months, and he thanked God for delivering us safely to Debra Damo.

  The antechamber of the church was decorated with wooden panels carved with images of elephants and giraffe, camels, gazelle, lions and snakes. There were paintings, too, vividly colored. One showed Abba Aregawi being pulled up the mountain by the serpent. Another depicted Saint George dispatching the dragon. In a third the Queen of Sheba was arriving at the court of Solomon.

  “Solomon,” I said.

  The monk’s face lit up.

  “Ah, Solomon.”

  “A wise king,” I replied.

  “Yes, wise, very, very wise.”

  “And rich.”

  The monk smiled.

  “Very rich,” he said.

  I instructed Samson to ask about the secret manuscripts. The monk gazed at the floor.

  “There were many books,” he said, “but recently there was a fire in the library Only a few now remain.”

  “Where are they?”

  He pointed towards a door leading to the back of the church.

  “In the Holy of Holies.”

  “I’m looking for King Solomon’s gold mines,” I said. “And someone told me that you might be able to help me in my quest.”

  The monk turned to a wooden lectern standing in the middle of the anteroom and pulled off a mottled green cloth. Beneath it lay a very large book bound in scarlet leather.

  “Is that the Kebra Negast?”

  The monk opened the book at random, revealing neat handwritten columns of rounded black letters. The script was Ge’ez, the ancient language of Ethiopia. He did not answer my question, but he did speak.

  “God appeared to Solomon in a dream,” he said, “and asked him what special power he wished for. The young king replied that he yearned for wisdom so that he might be able to distinguish between good and evil. God blessed him with wisdom. Then Solomon built his great temple in Jerusalem, layering the walls with the purest gold, Ethiopian gold.”

  He paused to turn the page with both hands.

  “Word of Solomon’s wisdom and fortune spread across the oceans and the seas,” he went on, “and it came to the ears of Makeda. She wanted to look into the wise king’s eyes and to hear of his learning. So she traveled with a great caravan through the desert, from our land to Judah.”

  “Where in Ethiopia did Solomon get his gold?”

  The monk did not reply but he continued to talk.

  “And Makeda came to Jerusalem and rested in Solomon’s palace, which was also fashioned from gold. She gave him precious beakers and fine objects and much gold, pure gold. And she asked him hard questions, and he answered them. Makeda was stirred by the king’s wisdom and power. And Solomon was moved by the queen’s beauty. So he held a banquet and sprinkled the food with salt. Makeda ate much and that night she slept in a bed beside Solomon’s own.

  “Between their beds was ajar of water. Solomon said he would not touch Makeda if she agreed not to use what belonged to him. But in the night the queen was overcome with thirst. She reached for the jug of water and drank from it. Solomon jumped from his bed and took the queen, for she had stolen what was his. Makeda returned to Ethiopia, where their son Menelik was born.”

  “But what of the gold, Solomon’s gold?”

  Again, the monk turned the pages of the book.

  “I will tell you of the gold.”

  “Where did it come from? Which part of the country?”

  “From the west,” said the priest, “from the land of Shangul.”

  “Beni Shangul?” I repeated, remembering that Dr Pankhurst had spoken of the place and had remarked on the quality of its gold.

  The monk nodded.

  “Yes, that is right. I myself come from Beni Shangul. The people who live there know about the mines of Makeda.”

  “You mean the mines of Solomon?”

  “No, they were not the wise king’s mines. They were the queen”s, for this was her kingdom.”

  I asked him to tell me more, but the audience was at an end.

  “It is time to pray,” he said.

  Without another word, he disappeared into the main body of the church. I called out, asking for more details of the gold, but there was no reply.

  Eyba led us out through the enclosure and back to our shoes. It was dark now, and the air was flickering with fireflies. We stayed at Debra Damo for another day, but we did not see the monk again. Ebya said that the monks preferred to spend their time alone rather than speaking to visitors. If they had wanted to talk, he said, they would never have joined the church.

  Before we plucked up courage to descend the cliff and make our way back to the Emperor’s Jeep, I had to know the answer to a question. The herd of oxen grazing on the mountain still baffled me. As no women or female creatures of any kind were allowed to enter the monastery, it wasn’t possible to breed cattle there. I knew, too, that there was no track or secret path up the mountain. The only way to get to the top was by rope. I asked Ebya how the oxen were brought up.

  “That is very difficult,” he said. “When we want to bring an ox up we lower down a pair of big ropes. Then we tie them around the ox and all the monks come out to pull it up the mountain.”

  Ebya broke off to take a deep breath and his eyes widened.

  “The ox makes a terrible noise.”

  ELEVEN

  Prester John

  “And the windows of the halls and the chambers be of crystal. And the tables whereon men eat, some be of emeralds, some of amethyst, and some of gold, full of precious stones; and the pillars that bear up the tables be of the same precious stones.”

  Sir John Mandeville, on the palace of Prester John

  In a café on a back street in the ancient town of Axum I met a man who told me he was a god. I have spent time with deities in human form in India — the subcontinent has hundreds of them – but this was the first time I’d met a godman in Africa. His name was Michael and he was a former Rastafarian from Liverpool. His skin was the color of dark apricots, pocked with mosquito bites, and his features
a blend of African and Caucasian. He smoked hand-rolled black tobacco cigarettes, one after another, and he spoke in a slow rhythmic voice. Every few minutes he would get down off his seat and go and spit in the gutter outside.

  “There’s a bad taste in my mouth,” he said.

  “From the tobacco?”

  “No, from the troubles of the world.”

  Michael was different from the deities I had come across in India. He took the business of being a god very seriously indeed. Although there are exceptions, Indian godmen are generally an easy-going bunch. I’ve heard them likened to snake-oil salesmen for they perform miracles, heal the afflicted and generally entertain. In a small village with no television, no cinema and no doctor, their arrival is the social event of the year. I watched as Michael took a long drag on his cigarette and expelled a plume of smoke through his nose. Some people are incidental smokers, but Michael was an expert. I asked him if he’d always been a deity.

  “It was in me,” he said, “but it was not wakened because I was sleeping. My eyes were blind and my ears were deaf to the truth. I followed the Way of Rasta. I found love with my brothers. I dreamed of a reunion with The People. But still I was blind.”

  “How did you learn to see, then?”

  He scratched at a scab on his arm.

  “Ras Tafari came to me in a dream. He told me that I was his successor, that I was to leave Liverpool and journey to the Promised Land.”

  “To Africa?”

  “To Ethiopia.”

  “That must have made the Rastafarians angry,” I said, “because they regard Ras Tafari as their Messiah.”

  “Yeah, man, there was bitterness: the sourness of ignorance.”

  “Do you have a following?”

  Michael lit another cigarette and was soon engulfed in a cloud of impenetrable smoke.

  “A prophet needs followers,” he said, “but a god walks alone.”

  “What about miracles, can you do any?”

  “I’m not a circus performer. I am the reincarnation of Ras Tafari.”

  Samson kept quiet, but I could tell he wasn’t relishing the foreigner’s company. He took a very dim view of bogus deities, and kicked me under the table when Michael went out to spit in the gutter.

  “This man is the Devil in disguise,” he said, voicing his disapproval, “let’s go quickly before he lures us into the desert.”

  “Maybe he is a god,” I said, unable to resist teasing Samson. “Shall I test him?”

  When Michael returned, I said that my friend Samson was having trouble believing his divinity.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Okay, man, ask me.”

  “I’m here in Ethiopia searching for something. Can you tell me what it is?”

  Michael’s face seemed to retreat into the haze of smoke, and the silence that followed made Samson shift uneasily in his chair.

  “I will tell you,” Michael said at some length. “You are looking for...”

  He paused.

  “Yes... what are we looking for?”

  Samson and I stared into his eyes, waiting.

  “You are looking for...”

  “Yes?”

  We leant forward on the edge of our chairs.

  “For a cave.”

  I burst out laughing. I have seen all kinds of mind-reading performances in India, but even so I was impressed by Michael’s routine.

  As far as Samson was concerned, Michael’s answer was proof indeed that he was the Devil in disguise, and he jumped up and ran outside.

  “Will we find the cave?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” Michael said, almost as an afterthought, “you will find a cave.”

  Samson brooded all afternoon. He was angry that I had talked to the godman, and said I should be more selective in the people I mixed with. Though I liked to think we’d become firm friends, I knew deep down that he was only accompanying me because I had offered him sound employment. As far as Samson was concerned I was just another foreigner in pursuit of a lunatic quest.

  Virtually everything in Axum seemed to be named after the Queen of Sheba. Legend has it that she made her capital there, though that seems improbable. Makeda died long before the rise of the Axumite kingdom. Nonetheless, the faltering tourist trade clung desperately to the myth. The hotels, the trinket stalls and the restaurants all claimed links with the Queen, if only in name. There was even a local brand of chewing-gum named after her. Most of the archaeological sites were also attributed to her. The tourist guides had rechristened a stagnant pool on the edge of Axum as “Sheba’s Baths”. A jumble of rubble nearby was reputedly “Sheba’s Palace”, and the stelae field opposite was supposedly her grave.

  Samson’s thoughts weren’t on the tourist sites. He was thinking about a devil called Michael. I had once studied basic mind-reading with an Indian magician called Hakim Feroze, and I knew that there were all sorts of ways in which information could be extracted from an unwitting victim – who would then be astonished to be told what he thought had been secret. Even so, I found myself preoccupied by a premonition that I’d find a cave.

  Most travelers spend days in Axum and they all have the same ambition: to be the first foreigner to set eyes on the Ark of the Covenant. The Ark is said to be kept in the Holy of Holies, in the compound of the Church of St Mary of Zion. I knew it was only indirectly related to my quest, but before we left Axum, curiosity drove me to pay the small entrance fee and enter the compound in which the Ark is kept. At the entrance to the church we passed lines of beggars waiting for tourist handouts and for God to answer their prayers. The hostilities with Eritrea had driven most of the tourists away. I must have been the first foreigner to visit the church that month. The beggars fell on me like locusts, holding out arms covered in suppurating sores or disfigured by leprosy.

  The Church of St Mary of Zion, built by Haile Selassie in the 1960s, is an extraordinary example of hippy kitsch. Opposite it stands a curious square-shaped shrine in which the Ark itself apparently lies. The domed roof has lost many of its green mosaics, and the railings around the building are chipped. In the doorway hangs a crimson velvet curtain. The penalty for any layman attempting to enter is death, and I decided not to chance my luck.

  Instead I asked Samson if I could see the royal treasures that are kept in the compound behind bars. They were guarded by a black-bearded priest who I knew must be very important because he was wearing Ray Ban Aviators with reflective lenses, and a black felt hat. Only a theologian who was very sure of himself would dress like that. He barked at Samson.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “He wants more money.”

  Ethiopian priests may be very pious, but they have an insatiable appetite for handouts. I was about to protest at such extortion but the priest tapped a yellow steel cabinet behind the bars and then grinned at me.

  Unable to resist, I handed over a few notes and the priest began the long process of unfastening the locks. Then he pulled the cover open to reveal a very large gold cross and five or six imperial crowns, the oldest of which was apparently made in ad 400. Seconds later, he replaced the cover and snapped the locks shut.

  “Your time is up,” he said.

  The next morning both Samson and Bahru asked if they could have a lie-in. They’d eaten a questionable bowl of asa wot, a spicy fish stew, and they had been up most of the night as a result. I had been more fortunate. The day before I had discovered some tins of food at the back of a poky tourist shop. They had clearly been there for some time, because they each bore the letters CCCP and were stamped with a red star. Most of them had no labels, but I thought they’d be a welcome change from the interminable diet of injera and asa wot. That evening, unbeknown to Samson and Bahru, I’d dined on Russian corned beef.

  Despite their pleas, and delighted that the corned beef had had no ill-effects, I insisted we hit the road early. I knew that the trek to Tullu Wallel would be arduous and I didn’t want them to think they could down tools at the fir
st sign of trouble. So we loaded the bags aboard and drove out of Axum before dawn. Already the road was packed with people and animals, all heading towards the town. Some of them must have been walking most of the night. Our headlights didn’t work so to my annoyance road-kill was inevitable. By six o’clock Bahru had racked up an impressive total, even by his standards — two rabbits, a dog and a pair of sheep.

  As we snaked up into the Simien mountains, the gradient increased sharply, as did the frequency of punctures. We no longer had a jack, so every time there was a flat tire we had to wait for the grunt of an overloaded truck. Sometimes no vehicles passed for hours. I told Bahru that a Formula One racing team can carry out an engine overhaul and change all four wheels in a matter of seconds. He looked at me as if I was mad.

  The tedium of waiting by the side of the road was relieved by scenery so spectacular as to defy our senses. The mountains reared up in a series of jagged peaks, and their slopes were carpeted with trees and ferns, grasses and mosses. There were waterfalls, too, plunging through the woods and dropping like sheets of diamonds to the valleys below.

  During the long rains in the highlands of Ethiopia it is impossible to keep things dry. The most valued possession of the children who herd sheep and goats is a plastic bag. During good weather it is folded into a peaked cap. During the rains it becomes a transparent overcoat.

  It is in these mountains that Prester John was once said to live.

  Tales of this mythical Christian monarch, who ruled a blissful kingdom surrounded by pagan lands, kept generations of Europeans spellbound and, as the centuries passed, the myth evolved. Prester John, it was said, was descended from Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. He governed forty-two lesser kings and ruled a land where centaurs, Amazons and a race of “shrinking giants” roamed. Through his kingdom there ran a river which bore precious stones, and theft and poverty were quite unknown. His palace was roofed with gems and its walls were adorned with translucent crystal. No traveler, it was said, was ever refused entry, and each day in the palace thirty thousand guests sat down to dine at a magical table carved from emeralds whose powers prevented drunkenness.