Read Online In Ethiopia with a Mule by Dervla Murphy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dervla Murphy
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beneath fine, pale dust; but occasionally I paused to look up at the serrated tops of gold and crimson cliffs that were rising gloriously against a deep blue sky.
We passed many pools of scummy water – the breeding sites of malarial mosquitos – and now it was the mules’ turn to feel frustrated. They paused often to sniff at these pools, but had too much sense ever to drink from them.
Within the past few hours we had descended from 8,000 to 6,000 feet and, as the ravine widened, I began to suffer from the strong rays of this equatorial sun; but soon we turned up a cul-de-sac side-valley and came to a grotto where sparkling spring water dripped from the rock into a deep pool. The object of this detour was to water the animals and give everyone an opportunity to wash all over.
Abbi Addi is the administrative centre of the Tembien district, yet it is misleading to refer to the place as a ‘town’. Walking through its laneways one has to negotiate small boulders and minor gorges, and all the houses are single-storey, roughly-constructed shacks. The headquarters of the district administration is an extraordinary building, made of iron-sheeting, even to the floors; and because many sheets are missing one has to jump over six-foot-deep holes, half filled with chunks of rock.
When we reached the Governor’s office a pleasant man of about forty, dressed in a dark lounge suit, respectfully received me. He was sitting behind a paperless desk on which stood an antique winding telephone, and he looked so pitifully perplexed by my presence that I wanted to pat him on the head and tell him not to worry – though this wouldn’t have done much good, as he spoke not a word of English. There is no post office here, but an Italian-initiated telephone linkof uncertain temper is maintained with Adua and Makalle, so I pointed to the machine and said loudly and clearly, ‘Leilt Aida’.
It took an hour to get my call through and while I was waiting the policemen, who had been standing to attention in the background, were signed off duty and eagerly came towards me to request a written testimonial for presentation to their superior officer. The possibility of any Ethiopian ever being able to decipher my handwriting – even if he could read English – is incalculably remote, but here the collection of such chits has become an obsession, which again indicates a deep-rooted lack of trust. Subordinates feel it necessary always to prove that they have done their duty well, where in our society this would be taken for granted.
After a brief argument with Leilt Aida, on the subject of bodyguards, she relented and spoke reassuringly to the perplexed Governor – though it was obvious that even her permission did not quite reconcile him to the idea of a lone faranj wandering around his district.
I then went to a talla-beit to drink several pints in preparation for the next eight-mile stage to this settlement. Jock had already been unloaded and provided with straw; he looked disillusioned on being reloaded so soon – by a group of local experts – but resignedly followed me when I set off in the cruel midday heat.
At first the track was ankle-deep in stifling volcanic ash and, as it wound between heat-reflecting boulders, I streamed sweat; but here the air is so dry that clothes never get damp – though my hair, under a wide straw hat, quickly becomes saturated. After a few miles I saw a woman and her filthy toddler sitting under a wild fig-tree beside a fat earthenware jar of talla . Assuming this to be the highland version of a roadside pub I collapsed nearby – to the terror of the toddler – and downed a quart at one draught. It was a thickish, grey-green brew, full of husks and unidentifiable bits and scraps, but I only cared that it was wet and had been kept cool by green leaves stuffed into the narrow mouth of the jar. The gourds used as drinking vessels never encounter washing-water; they are merely rinsed with a little talla
We passed many pools of scummy water – the breeding sites of malarial mosquitos – and now it was the mules’ turn to feel frustrated. They paused often to sniff at these pools, but had too much sense ever to drink from them.
Within the past few hours we had descended from 8,000 to 6,000 feet and, as the ravine widened, I began to suffer from the strong rays of this equatorial sun; but soon we turned up a cul-de-sac side-valley and came to a grotto where sparkling spring water dripped from the rock into a deep pool. The object of this detour was to water the animals and give everyone an opportunity to wash all over.
Abbi Addi is the administrative centre of the Tembien district, yet it is misleading to refer to the place as a ‘town’. Walking through its laneways one has to negotiate small boulders and minor gorges, and all the houses are single-storey, roughly-constructed shacks. The headquarters of the district administration is an extraordinary building, made of iron-sheeting, even to the floors; and because many sheets are missing one has to jump over six-foot-deep holes, half filled with chunks of rock.
When we reached the Governor’s office a pleasant man of about forty, dressed in a dark lounge suit, respectfully received me. He was sitting behind a paperless desk on which stood an antique winding telephone, and he looked so pitifully perplexed by my presence that I wanted to pat him on the head and tell him not to worry – though this wouldn’t have done much good, as he spoke not a word of English. There is no post office here, but an Italian-initiated telephone linkof uncertain temper is maintained with Adua and Makalle, so I pointed to the machine and said loudly and clearly, ‘Leilt Aida’.
It took an hour to get my call through and while I was waiting the policemen, who had been standing to attention in the background, were signed off duty and eagerly came towards me to request a written testimonial for presentation to their superior officer. The possibility of any Ethiopian ever being able to decipher my handwriting – even if he could read English – is incalculably remote, but here the collection of such chits has become an obsession, which again indicates a deep-rooted lack of trust. Subordinates feel it necessary always to prove that they have done their duty well, where in our society this would be taken for granted.
After a brief argument with Leilt Aida, on the subject of bodyguards, she relented and spoke reassuringly to the perplexed Governor – though it was obvious that even her permission did not quite reconcile him to the idea of a lone faranj wandering around his district.
I then went to a talla-beit to drink several pints in preparation for the next eight-mile stage to this settlement. Jock had already been unloaded and provided with straw; he looked disillusioned on being reloaded so soon – by a group of local experts – but resignedly followed me when I set off in the cruel midday heat.
At first the track was ankle-deep in stifling volcanic ash and, as it wound between heat-reflecting boulders, I streamed sweat; but here the air is so dry that clothes never get damp – though my hair, under a wide straw hat, quickly becomes saturated. After a few miles I saw a woman and her filthy toddler sitting under a wild fig-tree beside a fat earthenware jar of talla . Assuming this to be the highland version of a roadside pub I collapsed nearby – to the terror of the toddler – and downed a quart at one draught. It was a thickish, grey-green brew, full of husks and unidentifiable bits and scraps, but I only cared that it was wet and had been kept cool by green leaves stuffed into the narrow mouth of the jar. The gourds used as drinking vessels never encounter washing-water; they are merely rinsed with a little talla
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