The last of tar road soon disappears and we can wait to leave behind the scorched terrain for the cooler air of the mountains. The going is slow and as always the Harer map dot turns out to be far further afield than we had thought.

Most of Ethiopian roads are metal roads, well constructed but highly puncture prone.   As we climb, the skies begin to turn and the first drops of rain explode on the road in small plumes of dust.   It’s not long before the dust turns into clinging mud and visibility all but disappears.

We eventually in darkness arrive in Hirna call it a day and check into Wegegan Hotel that has by now a larger river flowing past its entrance. At US3$ a room it is clean with a small bar and restaurant that produces an Ethiopian style omelet that rumbles in our stomachs for most of the night in time with the thunder.

Morning breaks clear and fresh making the valleys surrounding Hirna look like fresh oil painted landscapes. Breakfast is more of last night’s leathery omelets which we skip settling for some strong coffee and stale bread. While Fanny showers and dons her burnt face Florence and I go for a stroll.

In the market place we attract more than our fair share of attention. Walking back I ask Florence without looking over her shoulder to have a stab as to how many young kids are following us. “Fifty.” No. “One hundred.” > No. > “Two hundred.” No. She turns around to be confronted by almost a street full.

Wearing jumper’s one-hour later we are on our way. Peak after peak looms in the distance making our route a majestic drive if rather bumpy. Six hours on we arrive in Harer the spiritual focus of Ethiopian’s Muslim population.

Overhead wires hang from lopsided wooden electrical or telephone poles. Pavements are marked out by a smooth trail over building debris, rubbish and open sewers. Behind every wrought iron gate lays a dog or two exhausted from the nights chorus of relentless barking.

The streets heave to the mass of walking figures that somehow or other to avoid being wiped out by the passing power of the Japanese auto industry. Mitsubishi, Toyota, Suzuki, Datson, Nissan with the odd large Merc with fluttering embassy pendants. Bleaches of exhaust fumes camouflage the wandering donkeys, sheep, grazing cattle. Hiach vans weave in and out of gaps too small to have wing mirrors. The whole lot is bouncing over or evading known potholes.

Beggars position themselves for the day’s alms. A naked man is lying asleep. Men in suits are walking with bunches of garden peas; Allah is singing the morning howl. A posh hotel security guard is awaiting a few cents from a departing guest. The local barber in a galvanised shed is picking his nose. Wedding dresses for hire are opening for business. Chat the local leaf is being munched by the ton to get out of the real world.

Unlike my friend Richard Burton the first European dressed as a Muslim to penetrate the walls of Harer in 1854 our entrances is totally ignored.We drive through the walls main gate, which is named after the town stopping at a bar in Feres Magala Square the centre. The first gulp of cold beer has hardly hit the back of my throat when we are surrounded by the hungry for a few dollars chat chewing Harer guides.   “I show you Rambo house, Haile Selasie house, Hareri house, the Hyena man.”

All attempts to explain that we have just arrived and are only interested in a cold beer have no effect.   Looking across the street I see a large poster Sylvester Stallone and much to our chat-chewing guides I announce what should I pay to see Rambo house while we can enjoy his large poster on the wall opposite with cold beer.

With the promise of gainful employment in the morning one of punting guides suggests the Tewodros Hotel. Describing it as not expensive, clean, even European, modern, it turns out to be a concrete three-story block that seems to act as the main communication tower. All Harer overhead wires emanate from or pass through its majestic height.

Up the concrete steps to floor one a room with a view and a balcony pleasantly surprises us with a clean room three decent beds and a black and white telly.

Right on time our guide arrives. He joins us over lunch introducing himself as Giorgis – Ethiopian George. He is bright and passes our test in commanding adequate English we can understand. The first task is to agree a day’s non-guilt Faranji guiding fees and then to explain we are not here to discover the Ark of the Covenant.   Last but not least we will dump him if he drags us to any shops where he is on a commission, however there is a bonus for a good days work –he gets the message.

It takes us another half an hour to battle our injera breakfast of fried eggs called inkolala tibs according to George who is by now tucking in to our great relief. Injera you know says George is made from tef, wheat like grain only found in Ethiopia. The tef dough is fermented for three days before it is cooked, producing a foamy rubbery sour tasting pancake bread, which is torn off to scoop whatever you are eating.

Three cups later of Buna (espresso coffee) and we are on our way.   First stop is the Chat market a stone throw over rubble from the hotel. According to George tons of the stuff is flown daily to Brixton market in London where it is sold as a vegetable.   Row after row of dealers sits in front of their mounds of what looks like branches of Bay leaves. Business is brisk with the going price for a bundle of small brighter green leaves at 3.50bir about the same as a bottle of beer.   The best stuff to be had according to George is from young shrubs. It’s all to do with getting the freshest leaves. Like a twittering bird he moves from one bundle to the next. It’s not long before I have a hand full. “Chew it into a pulpy mesh,” and hold it like me in you mouth in your cheeks “

The taste is bitter. “Any minute now, I am expecting my mouth and lips to go num and for my brain to follow.

Chat or as it is also called Gat, is a mild narcotic, a natural stimulant containing Cathione and Cathine one of which substances is used in the manufacture of Ecstasy pills. Most of the supplies don’t arrive in Ethiopian villages, towns till around 2pm. The amount of time it takes the growers to huff the stuff on the backs of woman, donkeys, for delivery to onwards pick up points.

Just as I deposit a large green gob to join the green hue of the surrounding rubble and well-worn pathways “It will take a few hours chewing before you enter blissful eternity”, say George. To the question why do so many Ethiopians chew Chat he replies, “If you lived here you would want to forget you daily routine and problems.” With bonus dulling eyes he also adds “It takes the pains of hunger away.”

We move on into the old quarters. A living museum of rectangular stone houses set in forty-eight hectares with three hundred and sixty-two lanes. The confusing webs of cobble alleys are more in keeping with a Moroccan sulk than an Ethiopian town.

We enter one of the houses. A world of hanging carpets, baskets, all walls decorated from top to bottom with dozen or so small alcoves in each wall displaying glittering crockery.

In front of us is a raised floor also richly carpeted on which a large lady is sitting smoking one of the many bubble pipes that are standing between suitable arranged sequent adorned cushions.   She has short fat arm with all fingers sporting gold rings that stop an avalanche of bangles escaping on to the floor. She beckons us to approach.

“This carpet shows the house has a daughter of marriageable age”, says George.

Before you could say Jack Robin Florence is sitting on the large lady’s knee sucking on the Hubble-bubble turning forty shades of green. A cherish sight. Resisting an offer of the coffee ceremony and numerous sale pitches in Gai and Sinan we move on.

Lining up his next play at earning some commission “Harer has its own language, and is one of the few cities that produced its own coinage. “ “The Marie Theresa Thaler coins are now made into earrings and other items of jewellery that are very beautiful,” says George. He has no explanation as to how a coin from the Austria Empire ended up as currency in Harar.

Back in the narrow alleyway our footsteps ring on the smooth stoned floor and vibrate up the walls announcing our approach to all living behind the solid wooded doors. “This is Haile Selasie house, where he lived when he was a boy” “You want to go in and see”. It costs 10 Bir per person to visit.” A sign on the wall of the house has no mention of the Emperors stay, but seems to indicate that it is some sort of herbal shop. We give the visit the skip and move to the next house Rambo’s house, which happens to be right next store.

This building from the outside looks dimly Oriental. Two stories it stands out like a wart against the surrounding structures because of its unusual architecture.

In a small booth with 10 Bir entrance notice a government looking official is fanning a book of tickets. “It’s worth having a look say George,” “From the top you can see out over the city “.   We walk into a courtyard. Facing us is a rather sad-looking building with a less had safe looking balcony. The stone steps up to the main entrance has a pillared covered porch which is totally out of character with the rest of the building gives the whole place a look as if it is a Hollywood setting for a horror movie.

Inside we cross a wooden floor that has lost its natural grain sheen to a staircase that once had grandeur. On the second floor the frescoed ceiling. (Which is supposes to be painted by the French poet Arthur Rimbaud who came to Harer as a merchant dealing in coffee and arms) is also in need of attention. Indeed the whole story of Rambo living in this house could be taken with a pinch of salt although he was friendly with Ras Makonnen Haile Selasie father who might have sub the Poet for the odd verse.

We spend the rest of the day browsing the many small shops eventually buying some reshaped Marie Theresa coins that have being made into a necklace. Later that night we ventured out to witness one of Harer strangest events. We were told that there is a tradition since the great Famine of the 19^th century of feeding Harer Hyena. Apparently there is still one as nutty as a fruitcake that carries on this tradition outside the city walls.

Parking Williwaw just outside the Fallana gates we walk alongside the battered walls in the dark towards a high-pitched whistle emanating from an out crop of rock. We have seen many Hyenas during our travels so I am somewhat sceptical as to what we are going to witness.

A Hyena can kill a lion and pound for pound it is the strongest animal in the world. It is only second behind the crocodile in jaw crunching strength when it bites it crushes with 1000 + lbs. To get a comparison a pit bullterrier comes in at 250lbs and a Rothweiler 360lbs.   So you can imagine the thought of holding out a pork chop or a cow’s leg to an animal that could bite through your arm as if it was butter is far from attractive.

In the ever-increasing darkness we arrive beside a man who has a large bucket of Hyena goodies. We are motioned to sit but the standing position seems more prudent if a quick escape is required.

While the man emits an eerie high whistle that rebounds of the city walls into darkness the hushed ground slops away from us. It not long before a few set of green reflecting eyes are approaching. Gutless a first the first animal snatches a hunk of meat and disappears into the night. After a while the night air is full of supernatural Hyena calls. They are now coming within meters taking large bones held by the Hyena man. As time moves on he is getting more and more rakish with manner he is offering the bones. He put his arm around his neck holding a bone, another bone (not his) between his legs, and the piece de resistance one in his mouth.

The atmosphere is electric. He turns with a smile and beckons me to join him. Handing me a large bone I hold it out to dream for the rest of the night that my arm is being crushed in the vice grips of a Hyena.

It’s quite a sensation watching those eyes approaching. Your nose picks up a pungent strong smell floating on the air before there is flash of white teeth that sends a vibration up your arm, then a sharp braking noise that makes you wonder why you are feeling no pain.(Top TIP: It must be said that feeding Hyena has its down side they becoming less fearful of humans but if you get the chance it is an experience not to miss.)

Leaving Harer with two hands on the steering wheel we return to main drag to turn right for Dirae Dawa (Originally known as Addis Harer, New Harer).The road as always in Ethiopia has its striding crucified humans marching in either direction. (Ethiopians use their walking sticks to hang their arms from when walking long distances. They place the walking stick across the back of their necks holding it in position by looping their arms over it. When viewed by other they look like Christians captured by the Romans marching along the road to the coliseum. ) In some way their image captures for us the essence of Ethiopia which is an unforgiving land, immersed in Rituals of religion/traditions, grinding its way from one famine to the next into the modern world.

   

Late afternoon we arrive in Dirae Dawa a shabby town with nothing much to show other than one main street with some modern buildings and a bridge over dry river. Like most cities it robs one of the splendour of its surroundings. Not until a warm mellowing of light indicated that the sun is setting do we find Paulo house. His home like most is up a non-named dirt road once more behind large gates. Like him the insides of the house is chaotic. A heavy smell of pot hangs in the air.

The road as always in Ethiopia has its striding crucified humans marching in either direction. (Ethiopians use their walking sticks to hang their arms from when walking long distances. They place the walking stick across the back of their necks holding it in position by looping their arms over it. When viewed by other they look like Christians captured by the Romans marching along the road to the coliseum. ) In some way their image captures for us the essence of Ethiopia which is an unforgiving land, immersed in Rituals of religion/traditions, grinding its way from one famine to the next into the modern world.

 

(Continuation)

Fanny and Florence are now visibly distraught and near panic. More people arrive. With the guide moaning on the ground every sense I have is telling me to get the girls out of this situation as quickly as possible. For the first time on the whole trip I see fear in the eyes of Fanny. What was just a few seconds ago a wonderful landscape now turns into a ruthlessly barren and alien place full of menace.

I become acuity conscious that our lives are quite literally depended on defusing the situation. The group of arrivals form a half circle around us. Grabbing Fanny and Florence’s hands I pushed my way through the circling mob. I tell the girls to start back to Williwaw and don’t stop for any reason.

Fanny to her great credit does not argue and starts the long haul back down to Williwaw. Returning to the mob I am beset with questions I can neither answer nor understand. The guide is now on his feet. The druid is pointing at him his howling bordering on hysteria. I selected the loudest of the group. Walking right up to him I muster all the force I can find I jab him in the ribs > He double over. The howling stopped.

The guide makes a vain effort to explain what is happening. “They are demanding that we wait till a decision is taken”.   As you can imagine I am in no mood to hang around. Pushing the guide in front of me I once again break the circular and start after Fanny pushing the guide in front of me.

Waving to Fanny who is now several hundred meters further down to keep going we are followed by the mob. We make it to the first cluster of houses.

Fanny thank god has passed through safely and is now a good distance further ahead.   Out of the blue one of the most bizarre things I have witnessed takes place. The guide has stopped and is on bended knee with a flat rock placed across the back his head. He is paying homage to the druid for clemency. The sourly bastard is enjoying the limelight. The bloke that I had walloped is less sure of himself as is the throng when I kick the rock off the guide head and once more start down towards Williwaw.

Away in the distance I can see that Fanny and Flo are almost back to Williwaw. We walk on. I explaining to the guide that when we get to Williwaw he is to demand that the druid, the little boy, and the bloke I had biffed are to accompany us to the nearest police station, where the matter can be sorted out.

The whole event however has one last heart fluttering moment before I make it to the Jeep. One of the mob leaves the group running across a few fields. He disappears into a house re-emerging with Kalashnikov not that I could see it the time – all I can see is that individual is approaching with a gun. I decide to use the same tactic I had used in the Gambia some years ago.

On that occasion Fannie and I were out on a deserted beach when out of the undergrowth a half a mile away we noticed a figure approaching. He was dressed in army clothing carrying a weapon. It was obvious that he was not coming in our direction out of curiosity. What I did then I now do once more.

Instead of allowing the individual walk towards me unchallenged I start to towards him. I knew that I was taking a calculated risk. My mind as in the Gambia is in a tangled of conflicting emotions. In the Gambia on our meeting the individual felt that he should say something. He asked me the time.

Here it felt like as if I was in some trendy animated move he shouldered the gun.

Arriving at Williwaw Fannie and Florence are cold and trembling. They are both obviously badly shaken. While opening the doors I point at the druid, the gun carrier, the boy and the loud mouth indicating for all of them to get on the roof. The Guide explains my intentions. Astonishingly they all clamber on top. The nearest police station according to the guide is just outside Mekele the capital of the Tigray forty kilometres down the road.

Explaining the plan to the girls we set off at speed, which is somewhat tricky for those on the roof. Calming down > the sky open soaking my passengers. Twenty minutes later I pull over into the front of the police station. While my non-paying fares get off the roof I enter the station. A young cop greets me in perfect English the best stroke of luck all day. Ordering the other out of the room he listens to my explanation of the situation without interruption.

Returning outside he takes the boy across a field behind the station. Twenty minutes pass by at ticking speed. He returns. “I will take care of these people you are free to go.” “The boy has confirmed that the priest attacked you.”   “I am sorry I had to leave you here for so long but I needed to talk the boy far enough away so that he was not scared to tell the truth.” “As you do not want to press charges I will hold them for a while before they all walk back.” “What is the name of the church we were at?” “The church you were at is called Medhane Alem” “The young boy” “Teclay Alemayenu. “ Please give him that for his honesty and thank you very much for your assistance”

The lesson learned about the dangers of rapid change when one carries out ill-conceived tampering with the holies of holies, and the fragility of life we stop in Mekele for the night and to recoup.

Tomorrow in the province of Wolo it is the eight wonder of the world Lalibela a Druids strong hold perched high in the Lasta Mountains the home of Rock Hewn Churches.

Departing Mekele at 6am nothing could have prepared us better for such a wonderful day than yesterday. Vivid green fields glistened in the early morning watery sunlight. They are excessively set off by the surrounding mountains and at the same time there is a feeling that something else balances almost everything.

Lalibela is to our south one hundred and sixty odd kilometres over a road that is impassable to most traffic if it is raining. After yesterday we are not unnerved by the prospect. We stop in a small village named Betmara for an early morning tea. Williwaw abilities to handle the way ahead attract some considerable attention.   Normally we would have no problem in giving a few souls a lift however the fact that we are still in Tigre all enquiries are turned down.

A few kilometres after Betmara the road with the breath-taking scenery around every hairpin begins to climb. Our progress to the next village Maychew is slow but invigorating. We have no inkling that we are in fact passing through one and the same spot that Ethiopia’s uninterrupted independence of centuries came to an end for seven years.

It is in these very hills around Maychew that the Italians (mainly due to their air power) defeated the Ethiopians in 1936.

Noon and not one vehicle had passed us in either direction. A small lake marked on our map as Lake Ashenge appears to our right.   It has the effect of making the field’s greener and the surrounding hills more pristine. Our road is still climbing as we pass yet another village a look-alike for the last village. This is where we should turn off for Lalibela says Fanny. “Sekota is the next village.”   We never see it but we do notice that we are now on the descent.

The track becomes rocker and slippery with an odd gushing stream rampaging across it here and there.

Although the driving requires moments of full attention we have no major difficulties to speak of. The fields give away to rocky out crops with a small river whose course we follow at first from a high, slowly descending to its level we eventually cross over it.   Lalibela stays well hidden till the last moment.

Looking far from the eighth wonder of the world it appears perched 2630m up on a craggy slope. Its round stone houses look grey and bleak in the late afternoon shadows. The only give away that it is Ethiopia’s top tourist destination is a new road under Chinese construction and a new airport bearing witness to the fact that its days are numbered.

Slowly winding our way up a welcoming figure starts making its way down to the side of the road. He stands with his hand out to no avail, as we did not stop. There are some beggars that touch a nerve and others that don’t move one no matter how hard they try. In this case we all feel small for not having stopped.

No camping is to be had so we book into the recently built expensive Roha hotel. With the Hotel located some distance from the village our explorations will have to wait till the morning. No one is disappointed as the hotel has all the mod cons and after a long day and yesterday’s drama dinner and an early night is just what the doctor ordered.

Dawn brakes in Lalibela. It was once called Roha during the Zagwe Dynasty (10^th century to the 13^th century) getting its present day name from King Lalibela (1167 to 1207 AD) who ruler over northerner Ethiopia after the fall of the Aksumite Empire. It is he who had the 13 rock-hewn churches built over twenty-four years. They say it’s the 8th world wonder. It’s surrounded by a rocky and dry area where just in the raining period farmers grow their crops. One’s called Roha and the capital of the Zagwe Dynasty which ruled over Ethiopia from the 10th century to the mid- 13th century. It was King Lalibela who built the 13 rock-hewn churches.

Like more episodes in the long history of this country, there are a lot of legends about this King. Rumour has it that a short time after he was born his mother saw a swarm of bee hovering over his pram. Instead of shouting holy fuck it’s the bees she cry’s Lalibela.     Literally translated < the bees know he is to rule. Not before one his older brother poisoned him and during a three days sleep he was brought to heaven and showed the plans of the churches. A city of rock-hewn churches which he replicated. Returning to earth he set about the job in hand with forty thousand chisellers hacking away according to the legend for twenty-four years. Running out of time God sent help. A gang of bob the Angles builders worked the night shifts. It is said that they built one church ostensible in one night. The net result witnessed in 1520s by a Portuguese Mission the first Europeans to visit Lalibela were so flabbergasting that friar Francis Alvarez reporting back feared he would not be believed when he described what he found. Others say that he did not go to heaven but went into exile to Jerusalem and got a vision to create a new Jerusalem because there is a small gorge called The River Jordan and there is a tomb of Abraham. Others rumours tell that the Templars from Europe build it.

In one of the churches is a pillar covered with cotton. A monk had a dream in which he saw Christ kissing it. According to the monks, past, present and future is carved into it.

The churches are connected to each other by small passages and tunnels.

We resist the unavoidable guide.  If we had taken a guide the impact of one on the most astonishing builds in the world would not have being as powerful.   Leaving the hotel on foot we follow a small path along the inclining cliff face. Arriving on a solid rock right in front of us is a church.

Shaped in the form of a cross it looks like it is going to rise from the depth of its pit at any moment. Symmetrically perfect its beauty displays a just right harmony with its surrounding red volcanic sloping rock terraces. It remains almost totally hidden from view until we arrive at the very edge of the pit.

It is only when the realization sinks in that some bloke a long time ago pointed at the rock and said this is a good spot to start chiseling that one can appreciated the achievement.

Attached to the living rock it stands four floors high in the middle of the pit.

The roof is a relief of three equilateral Greek crosses inside each other.

Walking around the pit edge to the front of the church its scale 12x12x13m takes one breath away.

As with most renowned world stone structures one can only marvel as to how they were constructed in the first place similar to > The Pyramids, the Wall of China, Easter Island Statues, and the like.Imitating a built up structure Biete Giorgis (House of George) is well worthy of its world heritage listing. It has no trouble standing alongside any of the above. Rising out of a 25msq trench to twelve meters in high from a triple stepped support platform it has like most Ethiopian churches three west-facing doorways.

We find the entrance via a trench and tunnel. Its monolithic cruciform form hits us more powerfully at ground level. Entering the church by the front door a chipped out world of stone pillars, passageways, rooms, steps, windows, all adding to the riddle as to where has all the chiselled stone vanished. Not a mound of rocks is to be seen anywhere near the site. The elaborate arched windows designs caught our eyes.

Appearing like a ghost out of the shadows the druid arrives. Dressed in a white turban with a white cape his heavily white/black beard, prayer stick and cross glow in one of the shafts of window light. Purity personified.

We turn down the ten-dollar offer of a look at the churches crosses, crowns and Manuscripts preferring to mender on up the tunnel for a look at the other ten churches.

Biete Ammanuel (The House of Emmanuel)

Biete Libanos (The House of Abba Libanos)

Biete Merqorios (The House of Merquorios)

Biete Gabriel/Rufael (The House of Gebriel and Rufael)

Biete Meskel (The House of the Cross)

Biete Danagil (The House of Virgins)

Biete Madhane Alem (The House of the Redeemer of the World)

Biete Mariam (The House of Mary)

Biete Mikael (The House of Mikael)

Biete Golgotta (The House of Golgotta)

There is not room nor do I have the patience to describe them all here in detail. Each and every one has its own unique structure with or without Angle power. Photograph and studied extensively these days they all have their own web sites. All remain functional place of worship. 

The tunnel leads to the largest and the most impressive of the above Beite Madhane Alem. Over 33 meters long 23 meters wide and 12 meters high its roof of solid rock is supported by 28 solid stone columns.

In a courtyard of its own it stands encased by stone pillars giving it a classical Greek Temple look. Restoration work with scaffolding and canopies hid the fact that it is the largest church of its kind in the world.

A partially restored tunnel leads to the next three. Biete Mariam the oldest of the group houses the original Lalibela cross. It’s smaller than Biete M Alem but still is a good 13 meters high. Heavily engraved it is more personal and charming. Next is Biete Meskel excavated from a bulge in the northern wall of Bet Mariam courtyard it has a window in the shape of a swastika giving one an eerie feeling of being watched.Then you have Bet Danaghil a little chapel in the south of the same courtyard. It is connected to the legend of the murder of pack of maiden nuns in the 4^th century by a roman named Julian the Apostate other wise known as Emperor (361–363) Flavius Claudius Julianus.

Before you know it you are looking at Biete Mikael also known as Biete Debre Sina it goes halves with Biete Golgolta in as much that they share the same entrance within the same courtyard. Both also share a darkness of persistent atmosphere of inviolability. King Lalibela is supposed to be buried under the floor of Biete Golgolta, and the chapel of Selasie is within its walls. The tomb of Adam a cruciform hermit’s cell lies in this same courtyard.

On we go to the Biete Gebriel-Rufael any other one in a deep trench which we cross over on a rickety wooden bridge. It is small and bastion in appearance and is supposed to have clandestine tunnels under it.

Arriving near the end of the list Biete Abba Libanos built-in a vertical cave with only the roof connected to the original rock has an eternal self-powered light. This is the church built by King Lalibela wife with the help of bob the angles builders’ gang. A narrow tunnel leads of one of its walls to monastic cells.

Biete Ammanuel also small is said to be the Kings and his family’s private church. This one is more on the Axumite style. Finally at four thirty pm totally knackered and out of film Biete Merqorios a cave church or dungeon.  

( To be Continued)

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(Continuation)

At first glance it looks somewhat unpromising but according to Paul this is where Ethiopia derives it name. ‘ Noah’s son Ham had Kush > he in turn sired Ethiopic from whom the name of the Ethiopia derived its name.

Present day history of Ethiopia begins with the history of the Aksumite Empire’. There is no camping so we book into a small hotel.

Some two hundred and ninety kilometres inland from the Red Sea Axum contains the most important symbols of Ethiopians civilization. It is the foundations of present day Ethiopian history. In short we are about to travelled 3000 years back through the history of Ethiopia to the glorious days of the Aksumites Empire’s.

After the fall of the Aksumite Empire, Ethiopia to a large extent remained isolated from the outside world for over a thousand years. We on the other hand remained after a long but fantastic drive dead to the world for the night.

Venturing out in the late morning the first think that strikes us is the obelisks or stelae’s (huge stone monoliths) of single blocks of granite scattered over a kilometre wide area. Ranging from 33 meters high to a few meters hardly any remain upright. They by some means deeply impart the tumbled power of a mysterious world. Carved with precision these tombstones are without question the most wondrous features of this ancient place. Represent multi-storeyed buildings with imitation wooden beams, windows, doorways with bolts and locks at their bases they lie splattered all over the place. Some of them had imitation viewing galleries at their top crowned by a high pediment with a burial chamber at their base.

One in particular took Mussolini fancy. He had the monolithic block of solid granite weighing one hundred and sixty tonnes nicked. It is no wonder that after humping it along the roads that his boys were wiped out.   Till recently it stood in exile for 68 years in front of the Food and Agricultural Organisation headquarters in Rome. It Remaining a bone of contention between Italy and Ethiopia until last year or so when the world heritage people of UNESCO that look after 812 of the world heritage sites brokered a deal to have it transported back to Axum section by section.

The return journey required a few bridges to be reinforced along the way and apparently also the runway in Addis with the last section arriving in April 2005. Since then a geo-radar and eletrotornographic prospection of the site where the obelisk is to be re-erect revealed underground tombs that await examination to this day. 

In present day modern Axum centre is a 17^th century church called Mariam Zion ( standing alongside it is St Mary of Zion built Haile Sallassie I and opened by Queen Elizabeth II in 1965) the mother church of all twenty-two thousand Orthodox Ethiopian churches with 250,000 clergy.   In its Holy of Holies is now where the Ark of the Covenant lives not that anyone has ever seen it. First built-in 321 AD by Emperor Ezana the greatest of Aksumite Emperors (307AD-333AD) it was burnt down by Queen Yodit re built by King Anbassa Wudim destroyed by Ahmed Gragn rebuilt by Emperor Fasil in 1662.

Ever since Queen Yodit took a look around inside no woman are allowed in.

As far as we know it has never being visited by Indiana Jones.

As to where the container of the original tablets actually are your guess is as good as anyone’s > Hidden on Mount Nebo on the Jordan River or beneath the Dome of the Rock Shrine on the Temple Mount or in the Dead Sea. No one knows. What is for certain is that no one has seen them for a heck of a long time so in the egotism chance that I might be the first lay my hands on the Ten Commandments I pay the church a visit.

Inside the compound of the church the ark is protected by one priest and two cannon. Once they were four cannon. The retreating Italians help themselves to two. Back in Emperor Yohannes IV times (1871-1889) there were forty-six cannon, which he had captured from the Dervishes. In front of the church are four stone pillars a long time ago used for coronation ceremonies. The Emperor to be crowned sat on pillar like a throne.   The last bum to sit was Haile Sellassie I.

All attempts with my Irish blarney to talk the priest into giving me a peep at Moses handiwork fail. I have to content myself with a gander through rusty railings at row of various Emperors crowns housed in a glass display unit that could do with a lick of paint. It seems that everything that exalts life at the same time increases its absurdity.Reunited with the girls we wander around the obliterate ruins of the palaces of the Emperors Inda Mikael, Enda Simeon and Taeka Mariam. What left is beyond our architectural mind’s eye so we wander over to have a look at the Queen of Saba bathtub where she last scrub three thousand years ago.

Once again it take a stupendous leap of trust to visualize her wandering down with her cortege of waiting ladies watched I am sure by the odd peeping tom to take a dip.

On the way back we pop into a tomb containing an empty stone sarcophagus. I try it for size. A little tight on the shoulders other wise it is a perfect fit. Having reinforced the values of family ties we return to the land of the living to be approach by a youth offering to sell a few Asumite coins. Aksum coins have being found in Egypt, Palestine, and Arabia, India and in many a private collection and museum worldwide.

Like Mussolini we can’t resist the temptation to have a bit of history purchasing a small battered coin.   Of the twenty four Aksumite Emperors known from their coins only five are recorded in history we will have to wait till we get home to see which one we got out of the lucky dip.

Back in the hotel over a bottle or two of Ethiopian beer I preferring the St George label to the Bedele (Beer labels) we decide to push on in the morning.

Leaving what only can be called an archaeologists Pandora box in waiting Axsum leaves us with a deep sense of time. The earth they say is 4.6 billion years old and the sun has another 5 billion years before it expires. Another words earth is at the half way mark. Evolution teaches us that humanity will expire some time when is the big question and how is the small question?

Like all before since living time began 3.5 billion years ago us humans are only just one little blip since then.

Our route passes through Ādwa and onto Yeha one of Ethiopia’s oldest sacred places.The ruins of the temple of Yeha date from the 5^th century B.C. are a must according to Fanny. A few kilometres after Ādwa we branch off on to a very bumpy track in search of Yehas Temple of the Moon. It appears on a knoll >   a rectangular edifice twelve meters high with a dollar demanding Youth.

I show little interest in paying to see what exceedingly visible from where we are parked is. Begrudgingly parking Williwaw I follow the girls into what was once a pagan temple, till the arrival of the Nine Saints (a group of missionaries welcomed by the Axum who spread Christianity in Ethiopia)

Now just four large walls enclosing an empty space there can be no doubt that who ever built this place were far from wet behind the ears master masons.

Ever block of limestone without mortar is grafted skin-tight to its neighbour.   Not a squeak of sunlight between them can be seen. Fanny has her more than just interested hat on. After twenty minutes of listing to her saying “there is a feel about this place” I eventually threaten to leave her to walk back to the main drag.

Appealing to all nine saints, Abba Pantelewon, Gerima, Aftse, Guba, Alef, Yem’aha, Linganos, Aragawi, and abba Sehma that her the funny side would reappear on the way back we hit the last bump to rejoin the main drag.  Consulting our map we are almost on the Eritrea border. Fanny is in no mood to make a navigational decision.

All of our enquiries back in Addis Ababa as to the possibilities of crossing into Eritrea, were met with “It is impossible.” In the off-chance that there might be away to cross I turn Williwaw towards the border to have a gander at the potential.

Heading towards the Adowa Mountains the battleground where Europeans suffered their biggest defeat since Hannibal Asmera the capital of Eritrea lies just over 100 kilometres further north.

It is in this region of Tigray that Emperor Menelik II a mere three thousand years after Menelik I mustered an army of over 100,000 fed by 72,000 cattle and practically armed by the Italians went to war against the Italians over the wording of an earlier treaty called the Wuchale Treaty 1889 the origin of Eritrea.

The Treaty written both in Italian and Amharic was as most treaties take to mean one thing to one side and another on the other side. The Italian version stated that Ethiopia consented to use the Italian government for conducting its foreign affairs while the Amharic version use the words “may use.”

Another words Ethiopia was in Italian eye’s a protectorate and on the Ethiopian side an independent sovereign state.

The battle that followed signalled the beginning and the end of the Scramble for Africa but not the end to hostilities between Ethiopia and Eritrea.

Approaching the border one can’t help but see this fact. World war trenches, barbed wire and the odd abandoned tank confirm that any crossing into Eritrea will take a lot more than a dash. We turn back. 

Heading north we arrive at Adigrat. Here we stay the night at the back of a small café. Turning south in the morning we now have the Danakil desert on our left as we enter the land of Rock-Hewn Churches. With over two hundred of them scattered over the mountains and plains it is difficult not to visit one. The one we pick turns out to be the worst nightmare of our whole journey.

Some thirty kilometres east Wik’ro with the predictable guide we set off on foot uphill. Passing well-attended fields we slowly start climbing through one village and then another eventually arriving after three-hour at the base of the cliff. A half an hour later we crest the cliff onto a plateau.The church appears set into the rock it is surrounded by a small stone wall enclosure with a few olive trees. Cut free from the rock behind it is free-standing on three sides with four rock columns and a large door in front.

Looking around there’s not a soul to be seen except an ancient looking druid in his yellow robes.

While our young guide explains the reason for our profusely sweaty state the wooden door to the enclosure creaks in the up draught from the cliff face.

The druid barely acknowledging our presence is asking exorbitant sums to enter the church.   After such a long hike the old bastard knows he has the upper hand. I wander over to the edge of the plateau. The view over the countryside is only matched by the cooling updraft > Wonderful.

“He is demanding four dollars,” says the guide. We are in no mood to haggle. OK.   Woops not Ok all of a sudden he is holding out for more. On the pretext of taking a leak I tell Fanny to keep him occupied while I slip around the back for a sneaky preview to see if it worth the trouble.

Hopping over a stonewall I am completely hidden from view as I walk across the enclosure. The Church door is open. Inside (as with all Ethiopian Coptic churches) the church is divided architecturally into an outer subdivision then an inner section and right in the heart of the church the holier-than-thou housing the church’s replica of the ark, its crosses and manuscripts, and what we are lead to believe an ostrich egg.

Unfortunately I left the camera with the girls so miss the opportunity to take a photo of a central pillar in the holiness of holies wrapped in cotton. This Pillar is what is known as “Amd” the symbol of the unity of faith. Christ is supposed to have touched such a pillar when appearing to King Lalibela. Since then the past and the future of the world are written on it but man is too weak to bear the truth revealed by God so the pillar is kept covered.

Not wanting to raise any inkling in the druid that I had wandered off other than for a jimmy riddle I returned to the girls.

The old codger has now being joined by a young boy and is still holding out for more money.

I tell Fanny that it is worth it and to pay the extra few bucks.

Just at this very moment a puff of hot air rattled the door of the enclosure so that it springs open. With the door opened I start to walk and have just entered the enclosure when out of the corner of my eye comes the druid swirling his stick. In a reflex action of self-defence I grab his stick pulling him on to me and at the same time kick his legs from under him. He falls to the ground suffering a small cut to the forehead and nose.

Like a spring he is up on his feet howling and running. He runs out of the enclosure to the edge of the cliff top where he begins to howl even louder.

Away down below in the fields I see distant figures dropping their tools and advance towards the cliff. I have committed the holy of holies zapped a druid.

Fifteen minutes past before the first five or six of these people appear over the edge. With no warning our guide is being stoned. Receiving a rock to the chest he is now lying flat on this back pumping blood.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

DONATION NEWS: It seems that I am trying to get blood out of a stone wall. May be you are waiting till the End.

Just in case.

Robert Dillon. Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2.

Sorting Code. 98-50-10.

(CONTINUATION)

 

Back to our trip >

For once, they got it right. The church Debre Birhan Selassie with a singularly uninspiring exterior is stunning inside.

 

Tremendously colourful cartoon-like mural paintings depicting scenes from the Old and New Testaments cover the walls. Meanwhile, 80 cherubs (each with a slightly different Ethiopian face) stare down perpetually from the ceiling. Truly breathtaking: anywhere else this would be a World Heritage Site, removed to a museum or closed to the public. Here, it’s a functioning church on the rustic outskirts of a provincial town.   In the middle of all these ecclesiastic frescoes, the 17th-century artist Haile Meskel for some unknown reason painted a rather amusing depiction of the Devil himself.

Perhaps he wished to remind us of the devilries history of Gonder. (Top TIP: Debre Birhan Selasie might not be the Sistine Chapel but don’t miss it.)

By late afternoon we are pulling into Dabark on the foot of the Simien Mountain range.   The day’s drive without coming across one gorging truck has being beautiful through highlands and valleys.   Just as we enter town we stop at Debark only modern looking building. It turns out to be restaurant offering rooms and the main base for arranging trekking up into the Mountains.

Paul’s words ring loud and clear. “If you decide to take a hike into the Simien Mountains make sure you get a guide that you like.” “Not a Faranji or give me give me type.” “He will run you from one camping site to the next as quickly as he can to earn his fee. “ “This is one of the most beautiful places in Africa so take your time in picking a guide.

Over chicken and omelettes, several contenders approach us > all easily forgotten.   With the girls tucked in bed, I take a wander down the town’s main street. There is no street lighting to speak of. Eerie figures mostly dressed in white robes appear and disappear down small side lanes. It’s the nearest I can picture to a scene in Purgatory if it exists. Moonbeams play with the shadows making ever movement startling and every dog twice its size. All sounds are amplified by the almost complete darkness. My nose picks out smells of cooking, paraffin, shit, urine, coffee, and my armpits.

A small light attracts me to the door of flaking white galvanized roofed building. It’s the local shebeen. Pushing the door open my entrance is like a stone hitting a still pool but in reverse. The ripples of sound I had heard before opening the door come to a sudden stop. All eyes watched me as I pointed to a glass and make the drinking signal. My first specimen bottle of Tej.   I say specimen bottle as it arrived yellow in a bulbous shape bottle without a glass. A swig with a few ishee- ishee’s (Ok Ok) breaks the ice.

To my surprise I am addressed in perfect English by one of the shebeen locals. “l am Tedros welcome to Ethiopia.” By the second bottle, I have been introduced to all in sundry receiving a broad smile on each introduction that revealed sets of teeth, which would be any dentist’s nightmare. By the time it is my round I have my guide for a four-day trip into the Simyen > (sometimes spelt Semyen, Simien and various other adaptations from the Ethiopian alphabet) Tedros. I learn that the word Simyen means north in Amharic a difficulty I have a finding on the way back to the girls.

Tedros arrives in the morning. All is arranged. An armed guard, two pack mules, four riding horses, a horseman, a muleteer, a cook, a scout, all will meet us to-morrow at Sankaber where we will leave Williwaw. The girls look a gassed. Have I lost my marbles?   Do I think I am Doc Livingstone? “Come on girls this is the only way we are going to see the roof of Africa. “ “We drive up to Sankaber base camp on a new all-weather road is easy.”

On arrival in Sankaber, we find that Aunty (The BBC) is in camp.   They are making a nature program on the three endemic Ethiopian animals that live in the mountains. The Bleeding heart baboon or Gelada or Lion monkey as it is sometimes called. The Simien fox that they have been looking for the last three-week without seen one. It is neither, a fox or a wolf but a member of the dog family sometimes referred to as the red Jackal. The Walia Ibex a type of wild goat that lives on near vertical cliffs.   We, of course, have never heard of such creatures never mind seen one or the other.

Pitch No 114 at 3230m is somewhat bracing but it is the view that takes ones breath away.

Over the edge of an abyss is one the most marvellous of all Abyssinian Landscapes. The morning’s glory is cracked by the distant sound of a cock’s crow. We on the road to Axum passing our first group of walking crucified (The name we have allocated to groups of walking Ethiopians due to men’s habit of draping their arms over their walking sticks which are carried across the back of their necks.) Axum or Aksum is three hundred and sixty kilometres to the north three hours driving on a good road but we know better allowing two and a half days.

Described by Rosita Forbes, 1925 from the Red Sea to the Blue Nile- A Thousand Miles of Ethiopia.

‘Looking across a gorge of clouded amethyst … A thousand years ago, when old gods reigned in Ethiopia, they must have played chess with these stupendous crags, for we saw bishops’ mitres cut in lapis lazuli, castles with the ruby of approaching sunset on their turrets, an emerald knight where the forest crept up the on the rock, and far away a king, crowned with sapphire, and guarded by row of pawns. When the gods exchanged their games for shield and buckler to fight the new men clamouring at their gates, they turned the pieces of their chessboard into mountains. In the Simien, they stand enchanted, till once again the world is pagan and the Titans and the earth gods lean down from the monstrous cloud bank to wager a star or two on their sport.’

It would be a sacrilege of written description to attempt to describe the view in any other words.

I can only say that it sometimes hard to persuade the mind that it is you that is standing on a spot.   Looking out over miles rolling away beneath you can’t help but get a deep sense that you were meant to stand here. To see your life as a whole, a foretaste, maybe of that promised instant before death when all that you have been, all that you have seen, tasted, touched and been touched by is present at one and the same time. Perhaps it is the feeling one gets on the summit of Everest.

So you can visualize our reaction to the first bleeding heart that appeared over the edge of the abyss. Definitely, this has to be one of the weirdest animals of our trip. Out of thin air, a large male appears to surveys his surroundings. Admitting a sound that is hard to express other than it sounds human in tone he gives the thumbs up for the rest of his harem to hop over and commence plucking grass, digging for roots and bulbs.

Turning towards us I can only think that if this is a strict vegetarian we better be sure we are stakes. Drawing back it lips it exposes the nearest thing I have seen to a Spielberg Alien. Weighing about 16-20kg it has a thick lion-like mane on its head and shoulders and right in the middle of its chest a heart-shaped patch of bare fleshy reddish skin. Only its long tufted tail makes it look any way comical.   The rest of it looks like run for your life. Tedros assures us that it is harmless.

Strictly vegetarian they spend the day when not occupied by you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours grazing like cows. Seldom found far from vertical cliffs which they plunge over at the first sign of danger they sure made us forget about the volcanic plugs formed over 40 million ago that have eroded into the fantastic crags and pinnacles and flat-topped mountains described by Rosita Forbes.

Morning: Our small multitude has arrived > AK47, seven animals and four and a half humans > the half being a young boy. (Top TIP: Even though you might know sweet fall about mules or horses it’s a good idea to have all four-legged marched up and down in front of you. One limp gives it the flick. Also, remove the saddles any cuts or sores get the same treatment.)

Fanny satisfied that we have only the best of sock equipment and supplies all are loaded and lashed.   A John Wayne tallyho later and we off each of us equipped by the horseman with a stick to be used as a quirt. A tap on the left turns you to the right and a tap on the right to the left. Fast forward tap on the ass with a “Mitch” for a mule and a “che!” for a horse.   All very simple except if you tap on the wrong side it’s over the side.

Our column moves out along a narrow neck into a land of Afro-Alpine meadows and grasslands punctuated by Giant Lobelia and flowering red-hot pokers.   “They use to hide their weapons in the Giant Lobelia,” says Tedros. Standing at eight meters with flowering stalks these plants are called Djebera in Amharic.   “There are over 200 species of Lobelia in the world but this one is only found here.” “It grows for fifteen to twenty years before flowering and then dies”. “How it comes to be here no one knows”.

“Once the whole of this area of the Simien was once covered in forest junipers and olive trees”, continues Tedros. “You see that? It’s a dindero”. (Amharic for Giant sphere thistle) “It grows to the size of shrubs and even trees up here”. The one we are looking at is all of three meters high. Again it is only found in Ethiopia.

Tedros is in element enjoying sharing his knowledge pointing to this and that strange plant with all the enthusiasm of a botanist. Strawflowers or everlasting, clematis, q’aga (Amharic for the Abyssinian wild rose) the only wild rose native to Africa, the kosso tree that takes its name from the Amharic for tapeworm. Its flowers or seed are better than Smarties for getting rid of tapeworms. By any standards the flora is bizarre.

Leaving behind the different types of growth slowly we begin to climb steeper. It is time to give our animals a rest so we are walking. The effects of altitude are noticeable with shortness of breath and a lot of panting. At 3300 meters we come upon our first goat shepherd. A young boy carrying a blanket and the unavoidable stick a coarse woollen hat with a sheep flees slung over his shoulders.  As we pass by there is no give me give so I slip him a packet of sweets.

Remounted we arrive at a viewing point that looks down on the Jin Bahir River, which plunges into an abyss called Geech. Stunning beautiful we stop for a break.  We have now been on the go for five hours with every minute breathtaking. Our horseman, his boy and our arm guard with the cook have walked the whole way without the least sign of any effort. Anytime we have had to dismount we struggled with the altitude. Our destination Mietgogo a large peak according to Tedros lies two hours further on up at 3600 meters he is also on foot.

On we go into the blueness Florence being led by our bodyguard and Fanny riding high with her handbag Photo Opportunity 66. Fanny’s in her wisdom has both herself and Florence sitting on our sheepskins, which she had draped over the basic saddles. We eventually arrive at our campsite Pitch No 115, which is in a hollow surrounded by Giant St; John’s wort intermingled with giant heath.

Watched by thick-billed ravens that protest our arrival with a deep wheezing croak that sounds like a frog with asthma we set up camp for the night.   It’s an unpleasant night due partially to the condition of our faithful tent and the rarefied damp conditions.

Morning brakes with spectacular views to the north and east across the foothills and plains. Perched like gargoyles we watch two Walia ibex on a virtual vertical cliff face hop from one unseen ledge to the next. Mount Everest would be no problem to these fellows. According to Tedros, only five hundred are left due to poaching.   Thousand of feet below a village set in a deep valley cuddle up to the mountains.   The village roofs look like large field mushrooms.   Hot coffee and bread are most welcome before we set off on day three to Chenek our last stop.

Another wonderful day first descending into a huge valley ziz-zagging across streams and climbing again to stunning views in every direction with our first view of Mт Ras Dashen at 4620 meters (15,158 feet) Africa’s ninth highest peak. (Kilimanjaro 5895 meters, Mt Kenya 5199 meters)

Pitch No 116 with Circling Ruppell’s griffon vultures is another miserable night sleep that rules out any attempt on Ras Dashen.   Turning for home Tedros knowledge of birds is accomplished as his plant awareness. He points out bearded vultures that drop bones from great heights to get at the marrow. “You know that they are capable of flying as high as 25,000 feet”. “They are called Ch’ululey in Amharic”. There is not space here to mention all the birds but god forbid I ever get a serious dose of the twitters because a revisit to the Simyen would be on the top of the list. 

With one overnight stop pitch no 117 we arrive back to Sankaber. Aunty has left so we take their prime camping spot looking out over a long narrow valley. Pitch No 118. With all expenses settled we say adios to our Tedros, the horses’ men, the horses, the cook the horse-boy before settling down for an early night kip. 

Unknowing to us the Simyen has one last surprise in store for us. Out of the darkness, a young woman appears with a lanky teenager. In sign language, we gather that the youth has been gored by a Zbou Bull in the groined.

With the nearest aide being 25k away from Debareq there is no immediate medical help to be had up in the mountains. They had walked all day down from the roof of Africa in the hope of meeting Aunty or us whom they had heard were in camp.

The young lad looks pale and somewhat terrorized by the girl’s presence. All attempts to get him to show the wound fail.   Eventually, there is nothing for it but to drop my own boxers. Getting the message he grudgingly removes his. A nasty gash the size of my index figure is exposed obviously infected.   Fanny cleans it as best as she can apply a steri-strip closures plaster. During all time he stood in front of Fanny he nether flinches or makes a sound. In true African manner, there is no thank you. He walks out of the tent and into the darkness never to be seen by us again.

Our humanitarian deed is rewarded in the morning by the sighting of two of the Simyen most unique animals. Its bright rufous coat, white under markings and nearly black tail confirm that we are looking at two Simien foxes. What a reward. Most visitors never see one. We are not even sure if Aunty had any luck. A welcome night’s decedent sleep back in Debark tops the whole trip off. (Top TIP: Don’t miss it.)

Bumping out of Debark Axum is or next port of call. Founded several centuries before the birth of Christ it lies to our north in the northern province of Tigre famous for the notorious famine of 1985.

The road dropping some 2000 meters hugs the foothill of the Simines. It is dramatic and scary, to say the least. Progress is slowly marked by many a broken down truck or recent gaps in the bush where a set of failed brakes launched some poor unfortunate into the blue yonder. The landscape has changed from the rounded hills to a rocky harsh territorial terrain.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

DONATION NEWS:  Every bit as bad as the bleeding hearts of the Gelada or Lion monkey.

Be the First. Robert Dillon: Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2: Sorting Code: 98-50-10.

 

(CONTINUATION)

Heading north to Gonder Ethiopians capital for two hundred and fifty years (1636-1864) dawn is still without its Ethiopian sun.

Described, as Africa’s Camelot, Gonder is one of the high lights of any Ethiopia trip.

The province, which Gonder takes it name, was the centre of Ethiopia’s religious power struggles. The Moslems lead by Imam Ahmec Ibn Ibrahim Al Ghazi or Graqn (left handed) for short from Harer and Emperor Libne Dingel who sent a messenger to Portugal for help were the main combatants. History has it that the Portuguese lead by the son of Vaso da Gama (Admiral of the Indian Ocean he being the first European to reach India by sea) took over six years to arrive to give Emperor Dingel a hand. By the time the Portuguese arrived to team up with Empress Seble Wangel and Libne Dingle son Gelawdeos (Dingle had snuffed it).

They gave Left hand such a bashing that he was carried off on a stretcher.

Left hand peeved with his humiliation got on this mobile and gave an old Turkish Sultan a text for help. The Sultan came up trumps. Left hand now known as no hands returned to wipe out most of the Portuguese and Ethiopians at the battle of Wafla.   Poor Vaso da Gama son Christopher lost his head in the brawl.   The Empress Wangel and the remaining Portuguese scampered up the Semien Mountains to meet Emperor Gelawdewos who as you can image was mightily pissed off. So in February 1543 at Wynadega near Lake Tana accompanied by a few of his buddies they wiped out what was left of no hands. Christianity was once again established in Ethiopia.

However the story does not end there.

Unknown to the Emperor well hack’s wife Dil Wombera survived Wynadega. She married Nur Majahad Mir of Harrer (he is the bloke who built the Harrer Wall (Jogel) a nephew of what was left of left hand. Anyway she got Nur on the wedding alter to take a vow to revenge her husband’s death.   Emperor Gelawdewos by this time was rightly miffed so with a small army he rushed off to Shewa where Nur and the new wife had being trying for five years to overrun. Against all advice and UN resolutions number minus 6500 Gleawdewos rushed in on Good Friday only to get shot in the head. His head ended up on a pole for public exhibition in Harer. If you are still with me what was left of him was buried in Tedbabe Mariam Church in Wollo with all honour. The church itself was built back in 327 A.D by the twin Emperors Abraha and Atsbeha whom in those times were busy building rock-hewn churches.

After Gleawdewos departure things settled down for a while with the odd dispute breaking out here and there till along came Emperor Susenyos (1604-1632) founder of the Gondarine Daynasty. A Spanish Jesuits named Bishop Alfonso Mandez nobles him into submitting to the Church of Rome. So he set about disestablishes the Orthodox Church by killing a mere thirty thousand peasants causing a rebellion, which lead to him abdicating in favour of his son Fasiladas. Emperor Fasil re instating the age-old church showed the Jesuits the door established Gonder as the permanent Capital becoming the first ruler to have a capital in 600 years. Gonder remained capital of Ethiopia for two centuries (1636-1864)

You might well ask how we came to learn all of this. Before leaving Lake Tana we had picked up in the Tourist Office some leaflets. Believe that and you believe all.

Lake Tana recedes into our memories as we pass through Azezo. The surrounding land is fast becoming the foothill of the Simien Mountains. At one point we descend a winding section of tar laid road that has the first undulating tar corrugations we have come across in Africa.

We cross one small highly cultivated valley after another. Gonder nestling in its own valley eventually shows itself domineered by Fasiladas castle. No sound came from it. No whirling wisp of smoke. It seemed to hover in a state of exhaustion from its past glory and was yet stabilized by the surrounding large trees and lust vegetation.

The Castle reputedly designed by an Indian architect, displayed elements of Mogul, Moorish and European influence. Round tower at each of its corners look out over the surrounding country. Constructed of ruddy volcanic stone and blond brown sandstone, it indeed looked like Camelot but with a mixture of elements from a maharajah’s palace in Rajastan, or a renaissance Florentine stronghold or a medieval castle in the south of France.

On entering town centre one is immediately aware that there is a strong Italian influence to Gonder construction. We check into the Hotel Fagera a Mussolini type villa. Wooden floors, cornices ceilings, large spacious bedrooms with central wobbling ceiling fan and cracked shower tiles.

We eventually surface under a boiling sun for a day of exploration. Arriving at the gates to the Royal Enclosure it is surprisingly guide free. However entering for a mere five bucks it is straight way evident that unlike Tis Abay Falls this place needs a knowledgeable guide. Asking at the gate one appears like a gene. Using our parrot guide avoidance techniques we are satisfied that our guide has a good command of English.

For the next six hours we wander around the enclosure containing five crenulated castles with inter connected tunnels and raised walkways. We enter Fasil castle the centrepiece. Not much to look at inside but its size gives an idea of old Fasil power. Large dining area with a reception room on the ground floor above it another large room, which according to the guide was used for religious services, and addressing the faithful. Up another flight of stairs the bedroom and watchtower. From here you can see Lake Tana on a good day said the guide. Florence is bored till we pass some lion cages. Haile Selasi kept a black–mane lion here till 1992 say the guide.

In flashes of seconds we pass from one Emperor to the next. Tasdiku Yohannis I (1667-82) – Iyasu I (1682-1706) – Dawit III (1716-21) – Bakaffa (1721-30) – Iyasu II (1730-55) – world war two bombs.

Yohannis Castle is a heap of rubble damaged by an earth tremor and a bomb.

Iyasu Castle described by Charles Poncet a French 17^th century who was summoned to Gondor by Emperor Iyasu to treat him and his son for Leprosy was covered in gold leaf, and ivory. Iyasu liked throwing lavish do’s with a mere thirteen thousand of his soldiers in full battle dress just in case of the odd gatecrasher.

Dawit III built the lion cages. He ended up being poisoned.

His brother Bakafa built a castle with a large Banqueting hall.

His son Iyasu II built the last castle in the enclosure in honour of his mother Mentuab who caused untold trouble with her Catholic tendencies.

The whole lot of castles are augmented by, swimming pools, saunas, stables, and concert halls.

For a full portrayal of the life style that existed in Gondar one would have to read Poncet rare but extremely in depth account of his visit.

A small extract to get a feel of what life was like goes somewhat like this.

“Having being lead through twenty apartments I entered a large hall where the Emperor is seated on a throne. A sort of large couch covered in daises flowers and gold. Around the throne are other large cushions fashioned with gold. The throne with massive silver feet is set in an alcove at the bottom of the hall covered by a dome shinning in gold and indigo. He is seated alone on his throne with his legs crossed clothed in silk embroidered with gold. On either side his lords stand in ranks in total silence. He is bare breasted with his hair painstakingly braided.   A large emerald glitter’s on his brow”

Poncet continues,

“The next day clay in a vest of blue flower’d with gold that trailed on the ground his head is covered in muslin with strips of gold. His shoes are fashioned in Indian style with flowers beset with pearls. He walk’s towards two princes at the palace gates who awaited him with a magnificent canopy, with his trumpets, kettledrums, flutes, and hautboys. His chief ministers of the empire who are dressed like him with a lance in there hands follow him. He walks in the middle holding a large cross to his bare breast. After the ministers came the musketeers, followed by the archers and the emperor’s horse harnessed in gold with panther’s skins covering their backs. Awaiting him at the chapel entrench is the Patriarch his pontifical robes wrought with crosses of gold, He is standing with a hundred religious persons clad in white each holding a flaming torch that form a avenue into the chapel. The Emperor under this canopy with the discharge of two cannon walks into the church on a rich red carpet to receive communion. “

By the time the tour is finished the girls have had enough so I drop them back to the hotel before driving out of town to Fasil’sk Pool (entrance to which is covered by the ticket to the Royal Enclosure). Arriving there is not a sinner to be seen. I spend a wonderful hour in a very special place. Here in a small valley called Qaha, Fasil had built a two storied palace that was said to be more beautiful than house of Solomon. To this day in January of each year the baths are used by the Ethiopians many getting a dunking during the Festival of Timkat or Temqat or Epiphany which commemorates the Baptism of Christ.   (Top TIP: Don’t miss it festival or not.)

I take a quick detoured on the way back to town out to the church of The Abbey of the light of trinity or Debre Birhan Selassie to give it proper Amharic name. Built by Iyasu I Fasil grandson it is one of Ethiopia most famous churches. Saved from destruction by the Dervish of Sudan as legend has it by a swarm of bees it is the church with the ceiling of little angel faces so often reproduced in Ethiopian tourist propaganda. Noting the opening time in the morning I return to the girls.

After dinner with the girls long gone asleep I ponder the hotels three-book collection in the bar.

After Iyaus II along came Emperor Loas (1755-70) He teamed up with a bloke called Ras Sihul Mikael to squash a small rebellion. These two blocks feel out with each other when the Emperor Loas had the leader of the rebellion Ras Yemariam Bariyaw tortured and killed against the wished of Mikael > This lead to Loas hiring a contract killer to bump of Mikeal while he was playing a game of Chess in the Royal Enclosure. The Killed missed with the enviable results Mikeal put a match too Loas Palace. Flushed him out, dumped him in prison till he had him strangled with a sash. Mikeal then released all the little princes that the big bad Emperor Loas had locked up in Wohi Amba. He appointed Lyasu the great, Abeito (Prince) Yohaanes as Emperor the first of his Puppet Emperors and thus started eighty-five years of political turmoil called “ Zemene Massafint” or era of Princes.

This period brings us up to 1855 when along came Kassa later known as Emperor Tewodros.   For thirteen years, this boy-o set about to restore unity. He built roads and a large cannon called Sevastopol. He suggested to Queen Victoria that they should team up against the Turkish. Because his messenger came back with no reply he locked up the British Consul along with any other Europeans he could find.

On getting wind of this Queen Vic sent a friendly letter. It unfortunately took a year and a half to arrive only to be wrongly interpreted.   The Queens Royal postman was put in the slammer with the rest. Queen Vic got her knickers in a twist when she heard this. Not to be messed with she sent 32,000 marines under Captain Robert Napier to get back her messenger and release the other. Emperor Tewodros committed Harry Harry rather than surrender to Napier (1868). As to what happened to the letter no one knows or is telling.

Mission completed I can only presume Napier did not hang about as there is no further mention of him.   Emperor Tekle Giorgis was known previously as Wagshum Gobeze of Wag and Lasta succeeded Tewodros. He lasted three years ending up in jail after being captured by his brother in law Dejazmatch Bezbiz Kassa who crowned him self Yohannes IV. This fellow was not to be messed with. Annihilating Turco-Egyptians armies on two occasions instructing those that we left to walk home without shoes and to wash their feet as the left Ethiopia just in case any of it soil was stuck to their feet.

He and his chief of staff Ras Alula Abba Negga a gifted tactician and courageous soldier defeated the Italians in 1887. They for eighteen years while the Suez Canal and the scramble for Africa by Europeans was in full flight fought of all foreign aggressors. He led from the front till he took one and died at Metema in March 1889, Ethiopians greatest warrior. A year after his death The Italians occupied part of Tigrai including Asmara the capital of then the Maritime province of Merrb Malash (beyond the Mereb river or Madrie-Bahri land of the sea.) now known as Eritrea. (Eritrea takes its name from the Greek Erythrea meaning red or from the old Latin name for the red sea “Mare Erithyreum)

The treaty of Wuchallie was signed by Menelik of Shewa (1889-1913) he becoming Emperor after Yohannes IV. Article three of the treaty gave the Italians a foothold in the Ethiopian highlands and Article XV11 in Italian text gave Italy control over the foreign affairs of Ethiopia and made her a protectorate under Italy. The Amharic version of Article XV11 of course said no such thing.   Alor! Another battle this time east of Aksum see’s off the Italians but leaves the Eritrea problem to this day.

Menelik goes on to establish Addis Ababa with his wife Taitu who named it Addis Ababa “New Flower.” They introduced electrical light, the telephone, the postage stamp, schools, hospitals, and the railway to Djibouti. From Menelik 1 to Menelik 11 stretches a period of 3000 years or 237 Emperor’s one of which only lasted six hours. A dynasty leading back to the Queen of Saba with a further 97 sovereigns going back a further five thousand years.

It’s no wonder that Ethiopia is one of the oldest Independent countries in the world.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

DONATION NEWS. THERE MUST BE ONE SYMPATHETIC SOUL.

Robert Dillon. Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2.

Sorting code: 98-50-10

 

(Continuation)

Rid of the trucks and with no traffic to speak off we begin to see the land around us. Rolling hills, covered in mélange of colours spread out to creep up far distant mountains. We reach Fiche and decide over a Faranji coffee to rest up for the night in the Alem Hotel.

By mid afternoon we are descending on a scary road that clings and some times hangs on viaducts into the Gorge of the Blue Nile. Windows fully rolled down the temperature raises in unification with the far wall of the Gorge.   With every turn of her wheels Williwaw engine bellyache against the gradient of the decent. The unrestrained views are dazzling with the blue Nile reflecting the steep gorge walls. It takes us a good hour before we eventually stop on the narrow bridge to take a breather before the ascent. A long abandoned sentry post boxes marked by shrapnel looks dejected, on the opposite bank. We are sure it has many a dark stories never to be told. Looking up the winding ascent there is not a truck to be seen.

We start the whole process in reverse but this time thank god in the shade.

In the only way she knows Williwaw of course protests by overhearing. With two cooling off stops and some unadulterated swearing that never again in a Land Rover we make it to the top to be surrounded in Dejen by a herd of You, You, money kids that have being watching our progress for the last two hours.

Dejen sterility matches it’s strangulate strategic position with a clatter of cheap hotels that feed on the northern bound traffic. Strangely we don’t recall passing through a similar positioned town for southbound traffic. We stay the night.

Another paralysing blue sky greets us in the morning. I collect Williwaw and bring her around to the front of the hotel to awaiting the girls.   Sitting behind the wheel I can’t believe my eyes. Williwaw gets a free car wash. With the agility of a deranged cat a young lady totally naked has hopped up on the bonnet and promptly pee’s on the windscreen. I am so startled by the golden shower I don’t dare turn the windscreen wipes on. She is obviously not the full shilling bouncing off down the street in chimpanzee style.

With the girls still not believing a word of the main morning event we reach Debre Markos the capital of the Gojam province. The road now turns to all-weather surfaces till we arrive on the shore of Lake Tana, once known as Lake Pseboe by the Greeks and Lake Coloe by the ancient Egyptians.

Ethiopians largest lake known to the locals as Lake Dambiya or T’ana Hayk it forms the main reservoir for the Blue Nile.

Stopping in Bahir Dar we eventually check into the Tana Hotel a few kilometres outside.

It is clear that Lake Tana is a major Ethiopian tourist attraction. Bahir Dar itself reflecting its earning capacity with many tourist shops, hotels and palm-lined streets.   Our hotel is modern both in Architecture and room costs. There are only Faranji prices here.

We are beginning to understand Paul’s comments when he said that the Faranji element is a curse. It is extremely difficult to camp in Ethiopia due to the consent hassle and gimme gimme attire of its young.

Unfortunately the consent association that foreigners are a source of wealth leads one to have a distinct feeling of distrust so much so that you feel that if you camp there will only be the flattened grass left if you leave your campsite for more than a minute.

From our travels we know that it is only individuals that tarnish the ordinary decent people of a country.

We’ve arrived just as dinner is being served in the hotel. Confirmation of our   tendencies to have dinner with a tip finally gets our room porter to leave us to settle in. With the lakeshore a short walk away our room looks out on well keep tropical gardens. Opening our large sliding window the bird sounds are inexhaustible, so on arriving downstairs we not surprised to be dining with a group of twitches. The conversation is Watttled Ibis, Abyssinian Long Claws, Blackheaded Siskin, Woodpeckers and the like. To tweet to woo none we knew.

Dawn breaks. A visit to the tourist office house in the hotel has us booked on a lake island monasteries trip.

Lake Tana water expanse seventy miles wide by sixty is dotted with islands housing Monasteries dating back to the 14^th century. One of these monasteries is alleged to have been host the Ark of the Covenant for eight hundred years before it was mover to Axum in the 4^th century. Where it is hiding ever since apart from when it was slashed on Dago Istanfanos Island in the 16^th century no one is sure other than Indiana Jones. Looking at map of the lake there are over thirty other small islands where it could have hung about unknown.

No matter we not here to solve the riddle. Finnegan’s Wake James Joyce’s labyrinthine novel is more than enough for me.

All aboard we set forth to our first island that turns out to be a peninsula. Uran Kidane Mihiret or Mehret monastery on the Zege Peninsula founded in the 14^th century is the only one that allows woman inside.

Not knowing what to expect we are met by our first fully robed cross bearing bible bashing Ethiopian sky piloted.

Standing in front of the doorstep to the doorway of the holy of holies he is surrounded by a halo of white-eyed head paintings each with wings and small dark black eyeballs. Every painted face is eyeballing him. In stark contrast to the opulence of his heavy radiating yellow robes white trouser legs protrude with toenails that shine like flecks of mica on bare brown bare feet that match the colour of the wooden floor.

In one hand he is holding a large silver cross-mounted on a staff that shines like the Star of David. A bible in the other suitable opened at a page displaying a picture of the Madonna on the left and St George slaying a dragon on the right. From beneath a skull-cap that rest on his ears his unsmiling beard face pears out at us. Both the Madonna and George have the same black eyeballs, as the on looking host of tightly pinched lipped round lifeless faces on the doors surrounds.

The two enormous doors to the Holy of holies are broken into three painted panels. The top panels of both the left and right doors are covered in life-size paintings of a standing ark angel in clogs with full-feathered wings, sword, and halo. Dwarf size saints at their feet accompany both. Directly beneath them are two further panels. The one on the left represents three white halo veiled priests carrying crosses with another group kneeling in front of them in white robes carrying chin-resting sticks. All are admiring some little bloke who look’s like he is suffering from a sever toothache while standing in a bird box that has a star on top of it. Under this lot is a prancing white horse with a purple robed rider waving a large Arabian type sword that has just chopped off a few heads of some unbelievers?

On the right the second panel has a group of what looks like ladies huddled together in a bus shelter with faces that depict the avoidance of a sudden rain shower.   At their feet is a head of a fish with a three-pronged spear stuck in it nut. The spear seems to be held by the archangel above. Under them to set off the white robes chin resting stick group on the opposite side is a group of mulish assorted sexed individuals. The male’s ID by moustaches. All in brown robes with black hair this group of peering pilgrims has a keen interest in our Pilots shining toes.

In the gloom of the holy of holies just visible a towering mural of another Madonna with folded arms sporting a halo with a wingspread white horse fluttering over her head. She is grace with the presence of a white bearded and white hair saint name unknown.

“Five dollar” says the Druid. Three quarters of an hour later we stagger out with stiff necks.

Like very think when you get an overabundance you become comatose. One prancing horse, two prancing horses, three all with riders busy with either squirting dragons, poking bleeding bullocks or hacking the head off some poor wretch on foot blend into one impression > The Glorification of violence in the name of religion. Not much has change.

On to the next island.

The sun is now frying our fellow passenger turning them into Byzantine Murus (Latin for Muriel’s) that could grace any wall in this century or the next. There is no mercy out here on the water of Tana. “It’s a funny thing about those eyes says Florence.   “The ones in the church they move”.   “Walt Disney pictures.”   “Luckily we have had the some common sense to bring suntan oil and hats. The breeze is superb and the sound of water rushing past the hull is music to my ears.

Slowly we draw close to any other craft. Large butter bats paddles propel a lone peddler in a pink shirt under a tablecloth hat on a boat straight out of Classical Antiquity. A Papyrus canoe. “Tankawa a Tankawa says our driver.

Low in the copper tinted water the peddler is oblivious to us. It’s a long journey of over three thousand miles to the sea.

Our landfall Dago Istanfanos a genuine Island this time is on the bow less than ten minutes if the outboard doesn’t conk. We land. The waiting druid is expecting us. Ten bucks. Five mummified Ethiopian kings that refuse to verify the where about’s of the Ark. A 15^th century painting of yet another Madonna all of which Fanny and Flo due to their womanly functions are refused admission on the pain of death.

I am not interested in a demonstration of large drum beating or a quick gander at the Monastery crowns.   It also seemed pointless (considering that I had just acquired the Amaharic for toilet shintabet,) to take up the offer of reading one of the rare unreadable Ge’ez written holy book.  We retreated to the lakeshore for a pee.

Next stop turns out to be a Monastery full of dubious druids. Once more no woman allowed on more count than just religious taboos we feel.

We put back with our fellow lobster looking Franajis arriving back in time for the evening lecture on avifauna. Leaving the girls languishing in the hotel I drive Williwaw out along the lakeshore in search of the Blue Nile’s outlet from the lake its source.

The Lake ( discovered by a Portuguese Jesuit named Fr. Pedro Paez in 1631 The Jesuits were expelled from Ethiopia in 1632) land locked 11°04.N, 37° 02E, provides over 80% of the volume of the combined Niles making it is one of the most important lake in Africa.

Unlike Lake Victoria the Niles other suckling Lake Tana is still free of the jaw snapping Nile perch and oxygen sapping water lilies. However both lakes at their outlets of life-giving water have hydroelectric dams.

Lake Tana dam is diverting so much water that it is already a festering bone of contention that will either destroy the lake or sour relations with Sudan and Egypt in the not so distant future.

On a bridge overlooked by a palace originally built for Haile Selassie I pull over. Immediately I attract two youth how take some shaking off with their persistence that they should guide me.   Eventually they get the message.   I drive Williwaw as far off the road as possible and take to shanks mare following a well-trodden track till I come to some boggy ground. A set of well-worn stepping-stones signals the way.

One hour later in dense tangled lakeshore bush I reach the beginning of the Blue Nile a few thousand years to late to be credited with the distinction of giving a lecture to the Geographical Society in London. But who cares I feel every bit as good a James Bruce (1730-1794) when he stood here claiming he found the source long before mobile phones or the Internet.

Unlike Bruce who went on to trace this water to their coming together with the White Nile all I have to do is to remember which set of stepping-stone I crossed in the first place.

I arrive back to be showered in glory to find both lasses snoring their head off. Too much fresh air, sun, combined with awe-inspiring paintings of a blissful ancient civilization has both of them in the land of nod.

After a late start and another visit to the tourist office we drive out to Tis Abay. Our intention is to visit the Smoke of the Nile one of Africa most amazing waterfalls. As independent traveller this is easier said than done. Arriving we are surrounded by a herd of guides and You, You, kids. There is no option other than whacking and hacking your whole way to the falls other than taking a guide. Although we make several heroic attempts to set forth on our own we are followed to the point of out right abuse. For the sake of tranquillity we eventually surrender. God knows the 18^th century explorer James Bruce who is credited with being the first European to see Tis Abay had less hassle than us.

I eventually agreed a ten-dollar fee. We cross over a small stone bridge to start a climb up a dense wooded slop which takes all of a half an hour. Another fifteen minutes we surface to the thunderous roar of a mini compact Victoria. Our first view is breathtaking. Photo no –cd the falls are in full bombardment. Set in a wonderful un polluted natural surroundings it has more of an impact on us than its more famous Victoria.

Gaining the main viewing vantage point the falls is in fact two separate falls.

One is plunging with great intensity into a narrow gorge while the other with a wider jumping off platform pours with greater volume but with a little less passion to join its more vigorous partner in the head long rush to the Hydro Electrical plant that will eventually cause trouble boil and trouble.

Rounding a bend to another viewing point we a meet by a flock of birds. Not the endemic white-cheeked turaco but five young bridesmaids in flaming red dresses. Their tightly bunned jet-black hair and rose-red dresses against the backdrop of the pouring white waters make a starling photo.

The European bride and her newly wedded handsome tuxedo wearing man radiate a feeling of happiness and love that is infectious. We all chat over a most welcome glass of bubbly. I find out that on its less spirited side of the falls it is possible to walk under the falls.

Leaving with the wedding party in full flow it is shock and horror to our guide when I point downwards. Much to his contentment I start down. We arrive at a small not so wide deep stream. There is nothing for it but to get the karks off. The guide is visibly scared stiff of water. Up to the Adams apple I cross without any difficulty he stay rooted to terra firma.

Working my way along the stream the roar of the falls is hearing-impairing. The spray is blinding.   Hugging the rock face I advance foot by foot till I reach the first vain of cascading water. The path ahead looks dangerous and uninviting so I chicken out. Returning to my spot where I crossed the stream the guide has long done a runner. Reunited with the girls we walk back to Williwaw guide free.

(To be continued)

Donation News: Not good. Zilch. You can still be the first.

Robert Dillon: Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2.

Sorting Code 98-50-10.

 

 

 

 

ETHIOPIA:

What we know:

 FAMINE. DROUGHT. ADDIS ABABA. HAILE SELASSIE. BOB GELDOF. HAILE GEBRSELASSIE.

After a punishing drive in aching solitude, torrid heat and big vast skies we are beginning to wonder if we should have ever listened to our Sicilian friend in Dar es Salaam.

We arrive in Moyale too late to cross the frontier. Check into a small hotel for the night. Approaching the frontier early next morning there are no signs of activity. This is usually a warning that your departure is not going to be a pleasant affair. By now we are experience hands at border politics, and have seen most of the scams. This one turns out to be one of the worst. Every tactic from unloading and searching Williwaw to demanding undeclared currency and threatening export duty on the vehicle are tried in an effort to line the custom and excise pockets.

Eventually with the assistance of a flying doctor we clear the frontier late in the afternoon. It’s time to good-bye or good riddance to a country that is destroying its geological leisureliness, its beauty, its hospitality, its people, for short gain.

During all hassle the Ethiopian side is monitor the whole Kenya per lava from their frontier.

As a result they seem to take a pride in dealing with our entry professionally and welcome us with open hands sending us on our way with out too much hassle.

Relying on notes marked on our map by Paul our Dar es Salaam Sicilian we head for Jinka. He recommends spending some time in the Omo river basin area using Jinka or Bako as a base to explore the area and its native peoples.

The Hamar, the Galeb, the Dassanithch, the Bumi, the Karo, the Amer, the Bena, the Mursi, the Bodi, the Anuak, the Nuer, the Surma, all of which Paul lament’s to be disappearing rapidly.

According to him despite the marked differences of aid on each tribe its effects is fruitlessly in the long-term because ultimately it erodes the tribe’s culture and inevitably brings tourism. “These peoples are the most remarkable ethnic people left in the world.” “Now they charge for photos,” says Paul.    We make good time to Yabello our turnoff for Jinka but as always in no time we are in very rocky terrain returning to atrocious road conditions.

Not a person or animal relieves our monotonous struggle upward through Dry River courses that mender down from narrow rocky/sandy valleys. The long slow climb to Konso eventually ends at five thousand feet. Braking free we gaze down on a creamy red yellow colour world where every splash of green can be seen for miles. Terracing buttresses cling to the steep mountainsides. Here and there dots of small clusters of neat beehive shaped roofs surrounded by stone walls confess to human life. Each roof has a large earthen pot sitting at a slight angle on its peak to allow smoke out and prevent rain in. We have arrived in the drought Tuscany of Africa. The Konso are the principal and the least cut off group of this area of Ethiopia. They speak Cushitic a language that is a mixture of the other tongues of the Omotic languages.

Our welcoming is not what we are expecting.   Instead of painted faces or bear breast woman pounding maze our descent is watched by large carved wooden figures huddle together in small groups either in a field or standing beside the track. They watch us pass like non-representational ghostlike signposts. The odd one is decked out with a large phallic symbol carved on the forehead. They impart a petrifying feeling.

“They are guarding against evil,” says Florence. Both Fanny, and I silence response confirms her intuition. We stop at the first cluster of hunts. The entrance to the compound looks menacing. Two large dried tree trunks buried under an array of dried branches form a wishbone gap into a dark passage way that is blocked waist high by diagonally logs. We are in no rush to knock so we park under a large tree that overlooks the terraced ground sloping down to the next compound.

The spell of our Ethiopian visit is beginning.   Suddenly out of the confused mass of tangle petrified wooden appears our first Ethiopian. He is not skin and bone but wearing a suit, a tie and shoes. Unexpectedly in perfect English we are invited in. We enter with unarticulated expectations. A dog growls and is rebuked in a language totally non understandable.

Standing in the enclosure the dog crouches submissively on a small stone wall. The world has reverted several thousand years. We are on a different time clock. There is a strong smell of smoke, earth, and animal dung mixes with an overriding feeling of cramp, cold stone, thorns, and thatch. A drying table with some corn occupies a central position; a cow moo makes known the whereabouts in a dark stable.

Bending down to enter the upper level of the enclosure we follow him along the top of a small wall. In the main living quarters a man wrapped in torn ruff cotton cloth greets us. A corner of a sack adorning his head hiding a face that tells of a durable existence.

To our right in a room all on their own on a roughly flagged floor grinding stones with their stone rolling pins lay idle. An unlit cooking fire surrounded by pitch-black pots and large earthenware drinking water containers confirms that he is not the only occupant of the enclosure. We are waived to sit down. To our left is a low arched doorway of no more than three feet high leading to a short tunnel the entrance to the sleeping huts. The tunnel ensures no unwelcome guest arrive in the dark of the night. Any over amorous stud looking for a quick bonk could be easily club or speared before he ever got erect. Perhaps this is where the origins of phallic symbols come from.

Our young man explains that he is a qualified accountant on a visit home.

“Fuck me an accountant who ever have thought you meet one in this place above all places.” I have my suspicions when he is keen to be our guide. We explain that we are on our way to Jinka and will be in the area for a few days.

He is enthusiastic to show that he would make a very good guide promising a guided tour of the enclosure after a cup of Kosso tree tea. (We find out later that Kosso is the Amharic name for tape worm.) The tea tastes bitter like one of those medicines that tastes not too bad but has some hidden ingredient that only makes its self-known when swallowed. The tour over one is impressed with the cleanliness of the enclosure. The latrine is on the outside and all animal dung is collected for manure.

During our tour he explains that the wooded statues are caved in honour of Konso hero’s.   They are called Waga figures.   The deceased is usually in the middle surrounded by his wives and the figures on either extreme represent any his enemies that he has bumped off. Also any animals that he may have slain are carved and placed at the hero feet.   The phallic symbol is called a kallaacha; however he is unable to confirm my theory of their emblematical source.

Our young man gives us Irish directions to Jinka.   Pointing at one group of beehive roofs to the next and then over the nearest hill where his finger points to unseen further hills.

We leave skirting our way out from the first to last of the terrace walls. By the time we hit the valley floor ever-thatched roof looks the same. Although the land looks infertile every terrace has its Cabbage tree with maize, beans, yams, millet, it is obvious that the Konso are resourceful farmers.

Our route takes us north of Lake Chew. No matter what direction we look in a mountain ridge blocks the horizon. With no roads to speak off it is stop and ask but ask how. People are as uncommon as animals so we labour on blind up one craggy stone passage after another in the hope of finding somewhere.

A display of red totally out of kilter amongst the snarling bush and rocks traps our eyes. Two blooming plants of startling beauty invite us to consider our surroundings. Jinka on our map as the crow flies is only a stone throw away nevertheless getting there is turning out to be more than a bit of a nightmare.

There is nothing for it but to push on up our preferred mule track. A loud report threatens any further advance. Williwaw has snapped one of her coil springs. Luckily I had not got my thumbs around the steering wheel. (Top TIP: When driving off-road get into the habit of holding the steering wheel without your thumbs hooked around the wheel. If the vehicle hit a stone or dives down a rut it’s more than likely you end up with a broken thumb.)   If there is one quality a Land Rover has is it ability to limp on when others have given up the ghost. With every lurch sounding torturous we drive on.

Heaving and a tossing from port to starboard we are welcomed to Jinka by an orange moon.

Limping up a grass dirt runway that divides the village it’s too late to find the mission that Peter has advised us to camp in.   The only guiding electric light turns out to be the Bar. Here we are fed and stay for the night in a small room behind the bar. Even though it is stifling hot it’s a sleeping bag job under our mossy nets. Sleep is extremely difficult. All of us spend the night begging for dawn to arrive. When it does we find that we are seven years and eight months behind when we arrived. The Ethiopia calendar conforms to the Julian calendar and is divided into twelve months each of thirty days and a 13^th month of five or six days in a leap year. Hence the slogan that Ethiopia is the country of “13 months of sunshine.”

With Williwaw far from well the acquisition of a replacement coil spring is upper some on my mind. First daylight impressions of Jinka and its territorial surrounds do not offer much hope of finding one. It is obvious that if one arrives here on a buses or public transport your onward options are limited if you have or don’t have a set of wheels. The few vehicles parked outside the pub are packet to the roof. By the time we have moved into the Mission compound the cool of the morning is long gone.   Pitch No 113.

Here I am informed by one of the two priests running the mission, which also runs a small school, and hospital that my only hope of getting a replacement spring is to fly to Addis Ababa. The next flight is the day after to-morrow seven years ago. “You are in luck as Jinka is the only off-line landing strip that Ethiopian Airlines serve for miles around here.” “To morrow is market day so you’re best to book a ticket in the bar today.”

After a late afternoon visit to the School and the hospital I book a flight. As to what time the flight departs I am at a totally loss. However with a little help I discover that Ethiopians measure time in twelve-hour cycles starting at 6 am and 6 pm. Twelve-o-clock turns out to be six am arriving at eight am, which is two pm. Dinner is with our three missionary hosts. The conversation goes on into the night delving in and out of all subjects both biblical and classical.

Ethiopians are Axumites that is those people who live in the Ethiopian highlands. The expression Ethiopic comes from the Greek (burnt-face) and the terms Ethiopia and Abyssinia (the latter deriving from the Arabic word habishat) became exchangeable when the Europeans arrived.  Current Ethiopia is a spin-off of the 19^th –century scramble for Africa. It was once thought to be the kingdom of a bloke called Prester John.   Seventy different languages are spoken in Ethiopia. Ge’ez the language of Ancient Axum is still used by the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. Ahow means yes and Aydelem means no is about as much as I can remember of the subjects touched on.

Hitting the pit a three am with a twelve o clock start a joke about time comes to mind. This smooth talking Irish guy is in a bar when a cool looking babe walks in. He starts looking at his watch till the babe can’t help but notice. “Your date late?” No he said. “I’m just looking at my new sate of the art watch which I bought down the street. “ I’m testing it.” It uses alpha waves to talk to me.” “What it’s telling you” That you’re not wearing any panties” “Well sorry,” she said, “but I am.” “Jesus’, it must be an hour fast.”   Sweet dreams.

Jinka’s market day bears out that at least 20% of Jinka’s current population don’t know that they are Ethiopians and for that matter they could not cared less.

Accompanied by the usually pack of kids and dogs we descend a steep rocky path. Passing a butcher shop advertised by a few hopeful perched vultures on the roof the meat looks less than appetising. We eventually surface onto a relative large flat area. It is thronged with vendors sitting on the ground and shoppers from another world > A world of symbolism. Every thing is haggled over and is sold or not sold by the grain or the gram. My camera has me in trouble almost immediately. Over our journey I have taught myself all sorts of tactics to take photos without the subjects noticing. I am caught red-handed by a very annoyed young lady. She is a Mursi’s or a Surma I don’t have time to ask.

She confronts me head on. Her lower lip hangs over her chin like an orange peel. Beauty is in the beholder. The larger the plate that signifies the amount of cattle her perspective groom will have to pay is not on view. Her eyes say it all. Another click and there will be hell to play. I back off feeling like a sulking dog. I can feel her saying “I am not a weird specimen but a human being.”

Every moment and every face in the market is a photo one must have. Many a western coffee table bears witness to this temptation.

God knows markets bet supermarkets and hypo shopping markets any time for social interactivity. This one reflects the hardships, the cultural mix, and the daily lives of the region. We spend a day a wash with art in the form of body scarring that either illustrative of a kill or visual beauty depending on the sex of the human being. Every scar with our knowledge of enhancing beauty or brutality asks a question that cannot be answered.

AK 47s are carried around the market like handbags. Wounds and scars are shown off with pride.

Western clothing warns of in pending, impinging, imposing technological of civilized growth grabbing hold of this other wish remote and forgotten territory. Large tracks of uninhabited bush, hills, and the Omo River are still contested over to this day by each and every one against every single one. We return to our campsite with a longing to be able to communicate beyond the constraints of our sunglasses.  

Scattering the awaiting crowd the DHC –6 lands > There is no check in an hour in advance or have you left your luggage unattended? Or Gate 56, Metal Detectors, it’s a free for all. My spring comes in handy.

Fully loaded and I mean fully loaded the props fire into life with a cough of encouraging black smoke. We swing around, hold on the brakes till the plane shakes like a wet dog. Four or five whoops bumps and we are air-borne. First stop Arba Minch not that I knew.

The rugged highland landscape with dirt roads winding from one small village to the next takes form below.   Without warning a sharp turn we are on the way down over a lake. We land at Arba Minch. A half-hour later we are once more in the air following the rift valley lakes. The land soon changes to look like a large quilt. As far as the eye can see every square inch is cultivated.

It’s hard to believe that famine ravaged and lay waste to this land producing some of the most horrific and soul-searching pictures to challenge the priorities of humankind.

In such a short space of time from a world of half-naked, orange peel hanging lips, where bodies are a talkative art form it’s more than weird to walk out of an Airport into to a world of Sheridan and Hilton, taxis, traffic, and air pollution too tee-shirts and trainers.

The first thing one notice about Addis Ababa is that it is rather overwhelming busy, full of life, with beggars, raving loonies, children, street-hawkers, cripples, and confidence trick artists all by the ton. The whole place is infectious and far safer than Joe Burgh, or Nairobi.

Because of our long stay in Africa I have come to learn that it is unrealistic to think I can understand another culture because of my culture, but that it is possible to communicate. There is still a great deal of comatose double standards in our attitudes to ethnic cultures. On the one hand we wish to protect cultures without the bits we don’t like such as circumcision, scarring, snipping balls off and the like when in fact we should be accepting the whole packet, and not treating the cultures of the world as merchandise. The interesting thing about Addis is the total contrast between native and out of the ordinary cultures that are being absorbed into an Afro-western style city. Walking around is westernised facilities you’re snowed under with a spirit of excitement, and curiosity.

After some Taxi fare barging I am installed on the recommendation of my taxi driver in the Lido Hotel not far off the main drag five minutes walk too Mexico Square the city centre. “A spring no problem” “Come in morning 2pm that is 8am. Ishee (OK).My taxi turns up on time and in no time I am getting my first lesson in Amharigna > Ishee just does not mean just OK is also can be used to say hello and good-bye. “Chigger Yellem” says my driver. “Ishee” says I no problem says the driver which is chigger yellem. A spring says I, Ishee says he. We drive across the city with a small guide tour thrown in for good measure. Menelik 11 founded Addis Ababa or the New Flower in 1887 (our time). Addis has the largest market in Africa named Addis Ketema is about all I understood.We arrive in a street dedicated to the car industry. Stall after stall loaded to the hilt with scavenged car parts. It’s a breakers yard dream. As there is no possibility of I finding my way back to the hotel I indicate to my driver to wait on my. “Chigger Yellem,” with a large smile.

Everyone has a spring or knows where to lay their hands on one. I am besieged by children demanding, “You give” “Money” “ Franaji” to the point of irritation. Taking a landmark I venture into the heart of the scrap yard. Down an oily alleyway up another till I spot a mount of springs. “Aw, Aw.” My spring disappeared arriving back with another that is obviously not the same. “No, No say I (which means Is, Is, I learn later in Amharigna.) Another attempt brings more no, nos. I start rooting through the springs. This one >How much. Twenty minutes of good spirited haggling follows.

I have come to appreciate during the course of our travels that there is a cheapskate way of bargaining that one can get wrapped up in. It is practiced by many a traveller whether they be backpackers or fly by nights in the belief that every penny counts. It is contemptible and to be avoided. Bargaining can be done with fun and honesty rather than with humiliation and sheer currency pinching. A fair deal is a fair deal and a rip off is a rip off.

While all attempts to compress the spring fail miserably I strike a deal in US$ and as an extra freebie the hangings on kids are sent scurrying for cover. I return to my awaiting taxi arriving with the reformed herd of kids who are once more sent running this time with a loud > Hid (Amharigna for get lost) from the taxi driver and scram from me. On the way back to my hotel the guided tour takes up where it left off.

The Hilton>The Commercial Bank of Ethiopia >The Palace> The Dinquinesh > Lucy Skull – thou are wonderful to Ethiopians. Lions House > The Football Stadium > Menelik Mausoleum all offered as a stop with no chigger yellem.

Arriving at the Lido Hotel I agree the term for a pick up in the morning for the airport and my flight back to Jinka.   Jinka no bother. No the Airport. Isee Isee.

Showered I venture out for a look around. First it’s the bank for details re arranging the last transfer of funds. Armed with a small map of the city I soon cop on that none of the names on the map relate to any of the names of the streets or squares.   Every place has two or three names depending on whom you are asking. Taxis swoop over to you even doing u-turns in the hope of earning a few Birr. Beggars home in on you all deserving but I have decided to help only those that don’t hassle me. I make it as far as the Hilton.

A spot of lunch:Those of you who have the fortune to visit Ethiopia can image my surprise when rather large pancake-like sourdough bread is placed in front of me. For all attentive purposes it looks like a tin brown sheet of foaming rubber called Injera. Normally it has what is called the wot served on top, but here in the Hilton the wot is served in separate little dishes. The wot is stewed meat and different vegetables. I look around at my fellow diners to get a hint on how to tackle it. Simple rip of a bit of Injera till it snaps off and then scoop up some wot. Deposit the wot on the Injera and hope the lot fits in your gob.

It is filling like one of those gurn kinobles you get in Austria that feels like a lump of lead in your stomach. With a mind all of its own that endeavours with all it might to dragging you down a black run long before you have mastered a blue run. There you have it but what do you expect in a country where every bit counts. Washed down with a beer in the garden bar I am once again ready to run the gauntlet of the no names streets of Addis.

(To be continued )