In Ethiopia with a Mule

by Dervla Murphy

  This is one of the filthiest hovels I have ever been in – which is saying quite a lot. Yet here filth never seems intolerable, as it might in a European slum. One finds no stale food, dirty clothes, scraps of paper, empty tins or unwashed utensils – only manure, wood-ash, leaves, straw and chicken-droppings on a never-swept floor, completed by the smell of humans who are no smellier that I am at present.

  I enjoy this neolithic world where money is unimportant and all the objects in daily use have been made of mud, wood, stone, hides or horn. However, in one respect life may prove a trifle too neolithic tonight. Eight adults and three children live in this hut, which has a diameter of about eighteen feet, and as the twelfth inhabitant I’ll have to roll up like a hedgehog. In such a confined space my meagre kit seems to occupy an inordinate area, but when I suggested dumping it outside consternation ensued. So many people can live in one minute tukul only because they have no personal possessions, apart from their land, its products and their livestock. Every object here is communal – for storing and grinding grain, or for cooking and serving food. Despite the savage frost, there is not even any extra bedding; yet these people do suffer from the cold, which may be why they sleep in a crowd. I felt guilty about needing to sit near the fire, though wearing everything I’ve got, so after supper I moved away and wriggled into my flea-bag – a procedure which causes much astonished amusement in every compound.

  This family is most endearing – generous, considerate, friendly and gay. Within a few hours they have made me feel that I belong to them, and in defiance of the language barrier we seem to have spent a lot of time laughing at each other’s jokes. I am learning that the quickest way to come to terms with the highlanders is by appealing to their sense of humour.

  Two hours ago everyone else curled up in their threadbare shammas under their stiff cow-hides; but my sleeping prospects are so poor at this temperature that I’ve kept on writing, hoping that eventually extreme exhaustion will cancel out the cold – which, unhappily, does not affect the bed-bug population. Just inside the crude plank ‘door’ is a ‘two-tiered bunk’ type of bed which I haven’t seen elsewhere. It is made of wood and hide thongs, on the charpoy principle – but without anything approaching the skill of Indian craftsmanship – and as my torch-light caught it, when I was going out a moment ago, bed-bugs were swarming all over the wood. No wonder the occupants are muttering miserably in their cold-bedevilled, verminous sleep.

  Now I think I’ll read a chapter or two of Pain and Providence.

  14 January. A Tent in the Semiens

  After a few hours of shivery dozing it was a relief this morning to hear the harsh crow of a nearby cock. Everyone else must have felt the same, for my hostess was up in the dark, vigorously blowing on the embers – which had been covered with ash – and as the first light seeped through the wall the other adults rose and crouched around the blazing sticks, so closely wrapped in their shammas that only their eyes were visible and each voice was muffled. Many of the poorer highlanders never eat before midday and as no one seemed to be thinking of breakfast I opened a tin of tuna fish and ate it with my pale pink plastic spoon, watched by a fascinated family who accepted the empty tin as though it were a golden goblet. Everyone disapproved of my leaving so early – they shook their heads and rubbed their hands together while repeating ‘Birr! Birr!’ (‘Cold! Cold!’) But I reckoned that I would feel a lot less cold if moving and we started out at seven o’clock.

  Strangely, none of these men was an efficient mule-loader, and this worried me as we walked down a sloping stubble-field that felt iron-hard under black frost. On being asked about the path to Derasghie my host had vaguely indicated the summit of a sheer mountain to the south-west and I had no idea how populated – or unpopulated – the route might be.

  Our path – having skirted one end of a canyon that lies hidden at the edge of the valley – expired at the foot of a steep, newly-ploughed slope. So we simply went straight up, and even during this strenuous climb I was being seared by the frosty air. We paused on the crest, and looking back over the valley I noticed how few compounds there are in relation to the area of cultivated land and to the livestock population. Yesterday evening big herds of cattle, sheep and horses were grazing on all the stubble fields – here barley is cut half-way down the stalk – so, however primitive their homes may appear, the locals cannot be really poor. These fat-tailed sheep and small horses were almost the first of either species that I’ve seen in the highlands; sheep can survive in most regions, but are commonest at this altitude, and horses are nowhere as popular as mules, whose sure-footedness makes them much more valuable, both for riding and pack-carrying.

  From this ridge the general view to the south-west was of a baffling array of seemingly unlinked escarpments and ledges. Directly below us lay a gorge of fearsome depth, overshadowed on three sides by perpendicular mountains of black rock on whose darkly forested lower slopes I could detect no sign of a track. Yet without a track it would be impossible to cross this formidable massif, so leaving Jock I began to quarter the ridge. Eventually a series of donkey hoof-prints leading south gave me hope – by following them we might find the track which I knew must exist somewhere. However, I’m no Red Indian, and as the hard, windswept ground had taken prints only between boulders, where the dust lay sheltered, we progressed hesitantly, climbing a shoulder of the southern mountain before turning north to descend a steep incline sparsely covered with withered grass. Then we came to the tree-line – and ten minutes later were on a wide, rocky path which was obviously the local M1.

  For an hour we continued west, climbing gradually through a hushed, twilit forest of giant heath; eerily, most of the trees seemed dead, and all were elaborately draped in fine, pale green, ghostly moss. Immediately above us yard-long icicles hung in hundreds from the eternally-shadowed cliffs, like an armoury of glass daggers; and all the time it got colder as the path became rockier and steeper.

  I no longer expect these highland tracks to stop climbing until they have reached the top of an escarpment – however much against nature such behaviour may seem. And sure enough, in due course our path took a deep breath, as it were, and soared straight up – providing a new danger for Jock, since thick black ice now lay between the stones. But the invincible creature made it somehow – bless his stout heart!

  This final climb taxed my own body to the limit. Scanty sleep on two consecutive nights and a recently rather frugal diet – in relation to energy expended – have so diminished my stamina that I reached the top of the 14,400 foot escarpment feeling like death not warmed up. For a few moments I shared Jock’s disinterest in the panorama and simply sat beside him with my head on my knees. Then, having recovered enough breath to smoke, I began to appreciate a view that was more confined than yesterday’s but no less dramatic in its own way. This indeed was the heart of the Semiens – a jagged, dark, cold, cruel rock-world – and to have ‘won’ it was reward enough for any degree of painful fatigue.

  Here the path vanished amidst lava slabs and when it reappeared, on a long turf slope, it had multiplied confusingly into half-a-dozen pathlets, which rambled off inconsequentially towards various points of the compass. A low, grassy ridge stretched nearby on our right, and on our left the plateau swept gradually up to a rough rock crest which I later discovered was the summit of Buahit (14,796 feet) – Ethiopia’s second highest mountain. At this point I had no notion whether the Derasghie track went south or east, but I emphatically favoured walking down rather than up. So we proceeded south.

  It was now half-past eleven and the sun had some warmth, though a steady breeze was blowing coldly across this roof of Ethiopia. Jock’s load had come loose on the ascent and my desperate attempts to straighten the sacks and tighten the ropes had not been very successful. However, this worry was banished – temporarily – when two men appeared over the horizon, driving four donkeys in our direction. It took these knights a little time to overcome their incredulity but then they willingly rescued the di
stressed damsel – though their eagerness to help was more impressive than their skill at mule-loading.

  Before saying goodbye I pointed south and enquired, ‘Derasghie?’ – whereupon one man caught my arm, nodded vehemently, jabbed the southward air and shouted ‘Derasghie! Derasghie! Thuru! Thuru!’ But the other man caught his arm and jabbed the eastward air, shouting, ‘Yellum! Yellum! Buzzy! Buzzy!’ (No! No! There! There!) From all of which I astutely deduced that both paths led to Derasghie, and that opinions differed as to the better route for a lone female with a mule; but since it was not possible to discuss the relative merits of the two paths I decided to continue lazily downhill.

  Fifteen minutes later I was astounded to hear myself being hailed in English by an Ethiopian on the far bank of a nearby stream; and I was even more astounded to see a tall young white man crossing the stream and to hear him greeting me with a strong Welsh accent. I stared at him as though he were a spectre – and indeed the poor boy looked alarmingly like one, for he had spent the night lost on the slopes of Buahit. When we were joined by a haggard young Englishman, I learned from the boys’ guide-cum-interpreter, Afeworq, that I had come upon the last scene of a painful drama, which mercifully was having a happy ending. Yesterday Ian and Richard had left their camp, near Ras Dashan, to explore the Buahit area, and during the afternoon they somehow got separated and thoroughly lost, so both had spent the night wandering around alone without light, food or adequate clothing. Early this morning Afeworq left the camp to search for them, and just before I appeared the three had been reunited.

  Ian, the Welshman, explained that two other Englishmen were at the camp and that all four are Addis schoolteachers on a ten-day Semien trek. He added that tomorrow he hoped to climb Ras Dashan (15,158 feet), Ethiopia’s highest mountain, and at this a certain fanatic gleam must have shown in my eye, for he asked if I would care to accompany him. Inevitably I said, ‘Yes, please!’ – forgetting both Derasghie and my dilapidation at the thought of a ‘highest mountain’.

  It took us five hours to walk the next eight miles. Richard was suffering from mountain-sickness and no one had much spring in their step as we climbed the long slope to the top of Buahit. From the summit we could see a tremendous chasm to the north, half-full of colossal wedges of broken rock – but my attention was soon diverted to the practical aspects of this landscape. Here we were on the verge of a 300-foot cliff which I wouldn’t have dared to attempt with a pack-animal had I been alone, but as Afeworq knew a possible zig-zag route he led Jock down.

  At the foot of this escarpment the load came off, having been loosened by Jock’s gallant jumping. Afeworq tried to cope – but he is a Gondar-born youth, who knows no more than I do about mule-loading. He then nobly offered to carry one sack on his head, and I carried the other over my shoulder, and thus encumbered we struggled on down steep paths of loose soil on which I frequently fell, being unable to keep my balance beneath the weight of the swaying sack. Richard was now almost collapsing and seemed unaware of our crisis, but Ian soon began to suffer from frustrated gentlemanly instincts – which had to remain frustrated, as he was clearly in no condition to assume the White Woman’s Burden.

  We must have looked a pathetic sight as we staggered towards the camp, where Alan and Mike welcomed us with hot tinned soup and Ryvita.

  This is a high-powered expedition, equipped with an enormous tent, a Primus stove, cooking utensils, crockery and cutlery, boxes of faranj food, a riding-mule, a muleteer and three pack-horses. Here we are down to 12,400 feet, in a wide, turf-lined hollow with running water nearby and a neighbouring settlement from which men come to exchange fresh eggs for empty tins.

  Now early to bed, in preparation for Ras Dashan.

  15 January. The Same Tent in the Semiens

  A long sleep in a warm tent is good medicine. At seven o’clock this morning everyone looked ten years younger and half-an-hour later we set off – leaving behind Alan, Afeworq and the pack-animals.

  Descending to river-level we followed the stream for about a mile, before climbing for two hours through stubble-fields and ploughland, where the boys took it in turn to ride their mule. This region seems to be thickly populated and we passed several groups of surly-looking locals.

  At 10.30 a short, steep climb brought us to a wide pass from which Ras Dashan was visible. It is a most unassuming mountain – merely a long ridge of rock on which one point is slightly higher than the rest – and without a guide one could never pick it out from amongst the many other mountains that here sprawl gloriously against the sky.

  Now Richard’s mountain-sickness reasserted itself, so he reluctantly decided to return to camp. Mike was also looking ill, but he doggedly tackled the next lap – a long walk around spur after spur, across sunny slopes of golden turf dotted with two-foot lobelias. (The higher the altitude the lower the lobelia.) Between these level stretches there were a few muscle and lung-straining climbs and by midday thirst was tormenting me, though the boys seemed immune to altitude dehydration. Foolishly, I had left my water-bottle in camp, not realising that above river-level all streams would be frozen. (They were a very beautiful sight – gleaming tongues of ice hanging from the mouths of dark caverns near the summit of every mountain.)

  By one o’clock an exhausting climb had taken us on to the Ras Dashan plateau, where the path skirts the western flank of the summit ridge and swings around to run parallel with the ridge on its southern side, across a wide, bleak plain littered with chunks of rough volcanic rocks.

  Half-an-hour later the mule was tethered to a stone and we were led off the track towards the established route to the summit. The incline was easy, yet at this height our clamberings over rock-slabs and massive boulders felt strenuous enough, and we spent twenty minutes covering that last half-mile. Then a real climb of some fifty feet took us to the highest point in Ethiopia – and five minutes after Ian and the muleteer I crawled on to the summit, feeling very like a fly that has just been sprayed with DDT.

  Our moment of triumph was somewhat marred by Mike’s disappearance. I had assumed that he was just behind me, but in fact he had vanished, and our shouts and whistles brought no reply. Then, concluding that he had simply stopped to rest, and would soon catch us up, we settled down to eat dabo, dates, nuts and raisins, while surveying the magnificence that lay below us.

  Twenty minutes later, when we had decided that Mike must have turned back, Ian suddenly glimpsed him in the distance, wandering away both from us and the mule. No one in a normal state could possibly go astray on that plain, with Ras Dashan to guide them, and as we scrambled down from the summit Mike’s gait changed to a wavering stumble – so while Ian went straight to him the muleteer hurried to his animal and was soon riding recklessly towards the ‘patient’. I continued south-west to the pass – unable to repress a selfish joy at being briefly alone with Ras Dashan – and half-an-hour later Mike appeared over the horizon, looking like a highland chieftain with his two attendants trotting beside him.

  As we lost height Mike recovered rapidly, and told us that while wandering on the plain he had ‘seen things’ and heard voices calling from the wrong direction. I hadn’t known that these classic symptoms of mountain-sickness could develop at such a comparatively low altitude.

  We got back here soon after dark, fell upon the lavish stew which Alan had ready for us and then sat around the fire talking books. One appreciates the occasional contact with one’s own civilisation, and this particular contact is to be maintained for another day, because tomorrow my route to Derasghie will also be the boys’ route to Debarak.

  16 January. The Same Tent on Another Site in the Semiens

  The business of camping makes life very complicated. If I get up at 6.30 I can be on the track half-an-hour later, but though we all got up at 6.30 this morning it was 9.45 by the time the boys had cooked a hot breakfast, packed their equipment, dismantled their tent, washed themselves in the river and supervised the loading of their pack-animals. I should have thought that on
e treks in the Semiens partly to get away from complications, and it seems rather peculiar deliberately to bring them with one. But then my way of travelling seems something worse than peculiar to the boys, so no doubt it’s all a matter of taste, as the lion said to the antelope.

  We climbed for three hours, to cross Buahit again at a point slightly lower than our route of two days ago. This track is a ‘main road’ and our fellow-travellers warned us about the presence of shifta on the route to Derasghie. Consequently Afeworq has been trying to persuade me to by-pass Derasghie and come to Debarak instead.

  From the pass we descended gradually for seven miles, across springy turf, between frequent outcrops of rock and low hills covered with stunted shrubs – and always the lobelia were standing rigid against the sky.

  Before finding this site, in a stubble-field near a settlement, we were walking through flat brown ploughland that stretched away to the horizon on every side. Above 12,000 feet barley is the only crop that does well and the locals bring their surplus grain to the markets at Debarak and Derasghie, to exchange it for teff, rye and wheat.

  The Semien shepherd boys wear brown and white sheepskin capes and round, high sheepskin or woollen caps – the first variation in dress I’ve seen in the highlands.

  Fuel is scarce here. On arrival we bartered empty tins for lobelia trunks, which burn badly, and for dried dung, which cooks food slowly. This site is without any shelter and at dusk the icy wind rose to gale-force; but nearby is a circular, stone-walled cattle enclosure and the kindly locals have said that our animals may use it too.

  From here we are overlooking a deep valley, beyond which another long ‘twin’ ridge slopes gradually down from the heights, and Afeworq has indicated that my path to Derasghie runs west for a few miles along the flank of this ridge, before turning south-east.