In Ethiopia with a Mule

by Dervla Murphy

  During supper Assefa told me about his own family, who live beyond the gorge. A year ago his two brothers and an aunt were killed by lightning, while sitting chatting in the aunt’s tukul, and he is the only surviving son. Because his parents are poor – ‘a little land, one donkey, one ox, two horses and three cows’ – his schooling is being paid for by a rich uncle who works as a waiter in Addis. Assefa’s intelligence is so limited that schooling is unlikely to be of the slightest benefit to him. But his parents imagine that once ‘educated’ he will be able to support them in their old age so, despite his brothers having been killed, they allow him to remain away from home and provide all his food – flour and spices.

  24 March. Mehal Meda

  This morning the clear dawn air felt icy. While Satan was being loaded I looked around my first Manze compound, which was built on a steep slope, with giant Semien-type thistles growing above it. There were three large dwellings, four two-storied stables-cum-granaries and three unusual igloo-type stone grain-bins. Everything had been solidly constructed with exceptional skill. Unlike the Semien people, these Manzes have been architecturally inspired by their climate. I noticed that cow-pats, with halved egg-shells embedded in them, had been stuck to the wall at eye-level beside each tukul door – presumably to ward off evil spirits.

  By 6.30 a.m. the priest was leading us around the flank of the mountain on to a wide plain, dotted with round hills and flat-topped protuberances of bare volcanic rock which was riven by spectacular chasms.

  On this vast expanse of yellow-green turf grazed thousands of tiny sheep. Their colouring was remarkably varied – black, red-brown, white, nigger-brown, grey and every combination of all these colours. Many cattle also grazed here, and mules, horses and donkeys: but I saw no goats.

  At ten o’clock we stopped at the priest’s wife’s grandmother’s compound and were entertained for two hours on roast barley, coffee, injara, bean-wat and, for the non-fasting faranj, three gourds of curds. This was a typical Manze compound with an attractive thatched archway over the entrance in the enclosure wall. Two cylindrical, straw-wrapped mud and wickerwork beehives were hanging below the eaves of the granary, each about four feet long and eighteen inches in circumference with a hole two inches in diameter at one end. Assefa told me that the highlanders consider bee-keeping ‘men’s work’ and traditionally the hives are cleaned on New Year’s Day, in September. Most of the honey is used for making tej, but sometimes it is eaten plain, as a delicacy. In Lalibela, at the Governor’s home, I was given a toffee-like confection made by spreading honey on a tray and leaving it beneath the sun for a few hours.

  The priest was staying with his in-laws for the day so we continued on our own. All the morning Satan had been trotting contentedly behind the horse but now he lapsed into his evil ways and Assefa, who was complaining of leg-pains and general debility, left most of the work to me. However, on these glorious uplands – where the wind was cold, the sun warm and the sky patterned with high, white clouds – I felt so jubilant that the chasing of a demoniacal donkey seemed just another pleasure.

  At three o’clock we reached this village, which is soon to be made the district administrative headquarters. Sheets of tin and piles of stones and building timber lie all over the place and I was startled to see a small tractor amidst the half-built houses. In the six years since Donald Levine wrote Wax and Gold there have been many changes here. He was the first faranj to explore Manz, but now a rough motor-track links it with Addis and during the dry season a slow bus rattles through twice a week to Mehal Meda, where one can buy Italian-made wine and beer. The rapid ‘progress’ of this area is perhaps owing to Haile Selassie’s special affection for Manz – the homeland of the present dynasty.

  I wanted to spend the night in a settlement, and after half-an-hour at a talla-beit we continued down the main street. Then someone shouted and looking round I saw two angry men pursuing us. Within a moment we had been overtaken; they gripped my arms and claimed to be policemen, saying that I must come with them for questioning. One man was obviously drunk, neither wore anything remotely resembling a uniform and both were behaving outrageously. I therefore ‘resisted arrest’ and during the brawl that followed – watched by half the village and by a cringing Assefa – the metal buckle of my bush-shirt was bent, my arms were bruised and the drunk gave me an agonising punch in the stomach. Then a third man intervened. He was wearing the remains of a uniform beneath a filthy shamma, and in poor English he confirmed that my attackers were policemen and explained that they wanted to see my passport. I replied furiously that though I have been in Ethiopia for three months the police had never before demanded my passport – which I don’t have with me, since the Begemdir Chief of Police had advised me to send it to Addis lest it should be stolen on the way. At this the third man accused me of lying, twisted my arms behind my back and marched me off to the police station – with the other two in attendance and a trembling Assefa driving Satan in our wake.

  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 th
e 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.

  25 March. Molale

  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?

  26 March. Sali Dingai

  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.