Читать книгу No Turning Back - Roger Rees - Страница 10
Оглавление3: Exploring and Learning
Bada Ridge Camp Site
AFTER ZENO’s ROADSIDE stop, the next stage southwards was expected to take about four hours, depending on the state of the roads. Louise and Carmen leaned back on their pillows in the 4WD and made themselves as comfortable as possible in the cramped conditions. Beyond them now, lay the pastoral and arable lands of the south where sudden torrential rains would turn pastures into a sea of mud and where a day or two later burning sun would shrivel flowing streams into stagnant pools. In low gear, they struggled up a steep gravel track shaded by straggly acacia and eucalyptus.
After almost four hours along a bumpy pot-holed road with Abebe wrestling the steering wheel, they turned sharply, drove up an even steeper track, and parked on a plateau area on which were erected a dozen substantial tents, each with a wooden platform base. Degu parked alongside. An unpainted breeze-block, drop-toilet ablutions block and simple kitchen were the only permanent buildings.
A deep wide valley spread below them, dotted with distant villages. Louise looked across a spur of the plateau. It had been raining and from the plateau’s edge runnels scoured the slopes.
‘I’ll bet you haven’t seen anything quite like this,’ Zeno said proudly to his students, as he stood alongside Louise and Carmen.
Louise walked to the edge of the plateau and gazed on a distant village, a sensation of wonder spreading from the back of her head into her eyes and then into the pit of her stomach. She breathed in the fragrance of acacia and eucalypt. She saw streams carving out little ravines and spreading silt on the flood plain floor, where fields and gardens were cultivated.
‘It’s like falling in love – we’ll never forget this,’ she said to Carmen, as she contemplated her first encounter with Oromo village people.
Meanwhile Abebe and Degu collected wood and arranged the fireplace. Water and food were carried in from the vehicles. A petrol generator provided limited lighting and some power for refrigeration. Abebe cooked expertly over three gas rings and prepared the evening meal of vegetable and goat meat stew. The atmosphere was intoxicating, a compelling mixture of people: experienced and inexperienced, black and white, Ethiopian, American, Australian, Arab, English and German – an exciting collision of values and cultures. Watching Abebe, Degu and Zeno, Louise realised how these different men were very much at home. She stared at them, aware she was beginning a new life.
‘Enebla, enebla!’ Abebe called to tell them that food was ready. The cool air hung in stillness over their site and after such a long day they were all hungry. They sat in two groups. In the centre of each was a single large bowl containing the thick stew. Before each person was a thin injera pancake. Louise watched Zeno and Abebe as they scooped food from the central bowl with their pancakes. The students did likewise, gingerly. Louise enjoyed the slight sour taste of the soft injera as she mopped up the stew’s rich juices. Zeno looked at her and smiled.
Zeno sat next to Carmen, opposite Louise and Rick the American. Eating and drinking while talking to students about Ethiopia was natural for Zeno. He and Rick spoke of people practising permaculture on terraced fields; of small boys keeping birds away from crops of sorghum; of women walking great distances to collect water for their village and of nomadic herdsmen protecting goat and cattle herds from hyenas, cheetahs or sometimes leopards.
‘And so there it is, our first fieldwork site,’ said Zeno pointing to the valley below. ‘Villagers will talk to you about their work, their family life. We’ll get a picture of a community’s health, particularly of women and children. The more you listen to the women, the more information you’ll uncover.’
The students murmured acknowledgement as they sat at the meal table on packing cases and a few old canvas-backed captain’s chairs.
‘Surviving in this country is what these people do every day. They are strong, never forget that. They are one thread in a vast tapestry.’ Louise couldn’t help gazing at Zeno. Distracted and silent, she imagined spending time alone with him. She made herself look away.
Zeno continued, ‘Remember also, people subsist, there is no safety net for them.’ Louise wondered what this land was like during the big drought and what happened to the people.
Zeno spoke softly as if reading Louise’s thoughts. ‘In the droughts the land forgot itself and because I was well fed, I felt like a foreigner in my own country. Pasture land broke into huge cracks and then came the dust, the endless dust … During the recent famine, everywhere, and particularly in the north, people hoped, but sank in the dust of their starving world.’ Zeno grasped his hands and lowered his head as paraffin table lamps flickered and early moonlight filtered through the clouds.
‘Mothers carried their children great distances to food centres. And, of course, there were deaths, thousands of them. Despite the drought, these deaths need not have happened. I knew some of these people … they tumbled wasted bodies into a thousand stony graves – and that’s how it was. Humble, beautiful people brutalised by poverty – individuals lost among so many dead.’ Zeno paused. ‘To be or not to be … that is what life is like for Ethiopia’s rural poor.’
Louise sensed his mood and felt for him.
‘What’s the answer, Zeno?’ Rick asked. ‘Is there an answer?’
‘Education to improve literacy levels, and the desire to change people’s thinking so that famine is not considered inevitable. It’s difficult.’
As the temperature fell each person’s breath floated up into the night sky. Abebe cleared the table and the students retired to their tents. In her sleeping bag, holding her torch, Louise tried to read but found it difficult to concentrate. Carmen was already dozing. Louise thought of the village people and tried to imagine their lives. She was eager to begin writing about them but she drifted to sleep.
A Village below the Bada Ridge
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Abebe was up early and had kettles boiling away. He put cups, plates with injera and jars of mari (honey) on the camp table. ‘Gotta look after you people with all you’re going to do today with Dr Wolde,’ he said to the early risers who were clustering around him. ‘Anyone doesn’t like mari and buna (coffee)?’ He smiled broadly.
The group assembled, some yawning. Abebe measured water and coffee into each cup. They sat chatting and drinking.
‘We’ll leave in about half an hour and take the track down into the valley where we can meet village people,’ Zeno said to Abebe.
Zeno wanted to introduce students to this little-known group of Oromo-speaking villages below the Bada Ridge. They would provide a contrast with the subsisting nomadic people of the Omo Valley region, the final destination on this trip. He hoped the progress in these villages could be adopted elsewhere, a beacon of progress, he thought, like a lighthouse light flickering on, off, on – with a message guiding and telling people what to do and what to avoid.
‘It’ll take a good hour to get to the bottom of the valley. Three of you have already walked in this valley so you can go with Abebe to the market in Asela,’ Zeno said.
Abebe brought a large earthenware water jug and filled the students’ water bottles. Zeno laid his map on the table and the students gathered round. ‘We’ll start our walk from the track head on the edge of the plateau. It’s easy walking from here to the beginning of the descent, but over an hour to the bottom of the valley. It could take longer. It’s not an easy walk, but you’ll see how spectacular it is. I’ll give you fifteen minutes to get ready,’ Zeno said. ‘Make sure your water bottles are full and you’ve packed enough bananas and chocolate and anything else you need to keep going. Bring some warm clothing as we might stay the night in the valley, but don’t worry about sleeping bags. If necessary, villagers will provide you with goatskins and cowhides. You’ll be warm enough.’
Zeno led the party off the edge of their tented plateau site and slowly down the steep gravelly track which wound its way along the valley side. Sometimes they were climbing as their narrow path took the safest route before descending again. Skirting rock outcrops, they saw goats grazing on precipitous slopes. Zeno stopped on a lip of the path with a sheer drop. The valley far below was yellow, brown and purple. He took a step back and asked the students to do the same in order to avoid any rush of vertigo.
The track ahead became broken as they climbed again until they reached slabs of rock and a bend in the track leading down. The early sun was not yet hot, but the students were bathed in sweat. Zeno paused on a flat spur to wait for those at the back. There was just sufficient room for them to stand above the sheer drop and see the tilled land near to a village below.
‘These tracks are the shortest way into the valley. The road we were on yesterday skirts the valley but is well away from the villages. When we get closer to the bottom you will see how, despite its rocky nature, many sides of the valley have been terraced for cultivation. The people use every inch of arable land.’
‘When did the terraces first appear?’ asked Louise.
‘Good question. In this region, probably as far back as the fourteenth century there were terraces here in some form or another or perhaps even earlier. Not exactly these same terraces, of course.’
‘That’s incredible.’
The students stood about staring at the landscape, reluctant to move. The morning light was brighter and the dry air was heating up.
‘Another half hour and we’ll be on the valley floor,’ Zeno said, while turning to see if all the students were safe on the steep incline. Louise walked behind Zeno. He turned again to check the students and caught her eye. ‘You’re doing well,’ he said. He met her gaze and did not avert his eyes.
Finally they walked off the track onto the undulating valley floor. Ahead of them was the first evidence of tilled land. As they approached the settlement of a dozen huts above a dry creek bed, a young woman appeared, carrying a baby. She walked slowly from a hut towards a gwaro (garden). Noticing the approaching party she turned, stared and waved. Zeno waved back. A girl of eight or nine joined her. She was a slight child, thin at ankle and wrist. Her skin was dark brown, her thick black hair curly and cropped, showing the fine structure of her face. Her feet were bare, her dress torn. Despite her thinness, Louise thought she had rarely seen a prettier child. Zeno knew the girl from a year ago. ‘She’s a beautiful child, bright but also subdued,’ said Zeno. ‘She’s interested in going to school but out here, that’s impossible, especially for a girl.’
Louise wished the girl could grow beyond a woman’s narrow, burdened back-breaking life. She hoped the traditional opposition to a girl being educated would soon fall away. The little girl stood close to the young woman with the baby, who gently directed her to pick up a bucket and collect water from the distant stream. Louise was sad as she watched the girl lug her bucket and disappear beyond the gardens. The battered bucket in the girl’s hand seemed like a betrayal of her life.
Zeno introduced the students and, with a welcoming gesture, the young woman, Biftu. invited them to walk around the settlement. She took them alongside the tilled garden on which some ten women were working, mainly weeding and breaking the earth with hoes around their corn plants, leafy vegetables and what looked like bok choy. The women wore brightly-coloured cotton skirts, thin and faded so that the patterns could just be discerned; their skin could be seen through the fabric. To begin with, they ignored the students and continued working. Zeno asked the woman with the baby if her mother was in the village.
She pointed to the track to the village.
Zeno explained to the students that her mother was Kaboue, a respected village elder. ‘She is sharp as a razor,’ he said, ‘and never in a hurry. Everyone agrees she is wise. You will enjoy meeting her.’
After staying for an hour, observing the women working in the gardens, Zeno told Biftu, who was now putting vegetables in a reed basket, that they would walk to the main village to meet her mother. Zeno beckoned to the students and they walked on across rough pasture and broken, sandy land.
Kaboue’s village was on a tributary flood plain another mile away. Her hut was in the centre of the village compound, well above the creek in which there was a trickle of water and a few pools. Stunted trees grew alongside the creek. Dogs, chickens and the odd goat wandered around the compound which was almost empty of people because, as with the outlier settlement, women were working in the gardens.
‘We’ll take our time,’ Zeno said. ‘Kaboue is probably somewhere nearby solving a dispute or giving advice.’
‘What sort of advice?’ asked Carmen.
‘Child rearing, crop planning, grain storage, bereavement, and dealing with the men when they return.’
‘Where are the men?’
‘Most likely looking after cattle on pastures alongside the main river. They’ll return when plots closer to the village regenerate.’
‘How long will they stay away?’
‘Who knows – a few days, a week or two, sometimes months at a time.’
Zeno set about finding the sage. He asked an older woman sitting outside her hut where Kaboue could be found. The woman stared and did not reply. She was bent over trying to catch her breath.
‘How old is she?’ Carmen whispered to Zeno as she looked at the woman’s lined, drawn face, her crinkly hair thin as spooled cotton. The old woman ignored them and stared at the ground.
‘I have no idea, but her working days are certainly over and she’ll be cared for in the village.’ The old lady didn’t move. From time to time, she turned a knobbly walking stick handle over and over in her hands.
Kaboue could not be located, so Zeno took the students beyond the village down the creek bank, past more tilled land and onto scrubby pasture country. They walked above the pasture for another mile, climbing towards a prominent rock ledge. Louise wondered why Zeno was taking them further away from the village and the gardens where Kaboue would be found. Then he stopped and looked back towards the village.
‘Look across this pasture towards the village and you will see the cycle of these people’s lives at a glance – pasture, water supply, cultivation and settlement; and it has been like this for centuries.’
The students looked across a scattering of tree tops and boulders towards the village. Now they could understand why Zeno had brought them here: for the completeness of the picture before them.
‘The village would have begun its life as a nomadic resting place and then taken root,’ Zeno said. ‘The outlier settlement is a good example. Initially it was within easy walking distance of the main village and then gradually huts and permanent life were established. Here you can see progress from nomadic life to cultivation and pastoral settlement.’
‘Is it like this in every village in the valley?’ asked Horst.
‘Yes and no,’ Zeno replied. ‘What develops in one place may not be appropriate in another, but they buy and sell alongside each other at local markets.’
The students took photos of the nearby village, the creek, gardens and the distant outlier settlement.
‘Okay, we’ll walk back to the village and find Kaboue.’ Zeno stepped off the ledge and, sure of foot, began the descent. In half an hour they were again on the outskirts of the village. The word had got around and Kaboue was waiting for them outside her hut. She was a neat, compact woman who remembered Zeno and spoke in a gentle but commanding voice. She shook hands and greeted each student.
Louise estimated Kaboue was probably fifty years of age. Her walk was elegant and she carried herself with quiet assurance; her directions seemed to convey a kind of code which the village women understood, as if Kaboue’s gentle gestures were a secret language. Her grasp of the essentials of village life was based on a bedrock of deep, non-judgemental wisdom. Kaboue simply knew her duty, her guidance, so necessary in this isolated settlement – the principal elder on whom they relied.
‘Of course we must feed you,’ she said to Zeno, who translated for the students.
‘She wishes to provide us all with a traditional village meal. That is their custom towards visitors who spend time with them. We should accept. Cherish the moment. We won’t get to another village today but there’s plenty to see here. Kaboue will answer your questions. She is well acquainted with the community and its customs.’
‘Isn’t their main meal taken in the evening?’ Louise asked.
‘That’s right, but it’s too dangerous for us to take the track out of the valley in the dark and we don’t plan to spend the night here. We’ll share a small meal with them around one o’clock and leave by mid-afternoon.’
Although it was a busy time in the garden and fields, with women looking after children as they weeded and gathered baskets of vegetables, they were aware of visitors. They soon left the fields and returned to the village to help prepare food. Kaboue had summoned them. She was like a friendly but uncompromising hen with her chicks as she rounded up women from the fields, gesturing and giving specific instructions. They responded with smiles and laughter.
With children playing around them, the women cut up vegetables, and killed and plucked three chickens. Younger women watched Kaboue carefully as she gave instructions, pointing, insisting and smiling as she emphasised how the meal was to be prepared.
As the party of village women and students sat in a tightly knit circle, Louise found herself face to face with Kaboue. Zeno translated.
‘I am glad to see you,’ Kaboue said, holding out her hand to Louise.
‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ Louise said. Zeno addressed Kaboue and spoke in Oromo.
‘You will always be welcome to share with us,’ replied Kaboue.
Share with them when they have so few resources, thought Louise. What a privilege.
Preparation of the food happened quickly. Over the meal, only Kaboue spoke to Zeno’s students. The other women just listened. Her eyes sparkled and she smiled constantly. Louise learnt that the villagers traded their grain and vegetables in the local market for hoes and small ploughs, implements not used in other regions. She also learned that, if age-old customs were not passed on by significant elders such as Kaboue, the likelihood of starvation and famine was enhanced. Louise admired the timeless wisdom of this Oromo woman as she related her knowledge of the seasons, of the harvesting of sorghum and millet, of storing seeds for the next planting. This was effective husbandry of the most fundamental kind – a practical village strategy, determined by Kaboue. She would have spent a lifetime collecting seeds, comparing soils and conserving water.
Zeno’s party spent almost three hours sitting, talking, drinking tella, their beer made from sorghum, eating roasted corn, with chicken and vegetable hot-pot spooned onto the biscuit-coloured injera and kocho. Louise listened carefully, grasping the sense of the conversations, even when Zeno did not translate. She relaxed and let the gestures and voices wash over her.
Louise felt like she was being entertained at the court of a queen – the intriguing Kaboue. Yet she sensed an undertone, especially among the younger women, almost as if they were imprisoned by her influence.
At the end of the meal Kaboue thanked Zeno and his students for visiting her village. He replied thanking her and the women and promised to return at the first opportunity. Louise realised that he needed to court her support if the changes he had in mind were to be introduced. At this moment she recognised how similar to Kaboue was her grandmother’s calmness, and belief that hardship can be endured.
Zeno’s party said their farewells and began their walk out of the valley and back up the steep gravelly track to their plateau camp. Just after dusk he led the students safely to their camp site. They slept well that night.
‘Consider a Man’s Background’
THE NEXT MORNING Zeno announced they would visit the Thursday market at Asela. Everyone thought they were in for another long day’s trekking and meeting Oromo people, but Zeno said that he had no intention of exhausting them.
‘Maybe that’s his way, one full day and when at the end we’re exhausted he provides something easier just to keep us interested,’ Louise said to Carmen as they sipped coffee over a later-than-usual breakfast.
‘He sure doesn’t want us to lead a retired life.’
‘I think he imagines that something spectacular will happen and we’ll fall in love with Ethiopia forever.’
Louise noticed Zeno looking directly at her. She wanted to ask him what it might be like for a Western woman to live in Ethiopia.
‘What part of Ethiopia do you think he wants us to fall in love with?’ asked Carmen, interrupting Louise’s thoughts.
‘The people, wherever they are.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Yes, of course. Didn’t you notice his respect and admiration for the Oromo women in that village?’
‘Yes I did, but I suspect his charm factor is like that with any woman he meets.’ Carmen raised her eyebrows.
‘I think he just wants to generate interest in Ethiopia’s people so there is momentum to support his ideas. He believes famine can be eliminated and that better education and improved health facilities are the answer. I don’t think he’ll rest until his goals are accomplished.’ Louise blushed as she spoke. Carmen noticed her pensive look.
‘I suggest we find out more about him, who exactly he is, who he lives with, whether he has children and whether he wants to go on living in Ethiopia, or take up opportunities overseas, like many highly qualified Ethiopians do,’ said Carmen.
‘That’s good advice.’
‘Yes. When all else fails consider a man’s background.’
Louise changed the subject. ‘I’ll ask him about his plans for change in Ethiopia.’
‘Louise, you’ve got the talent and will to alter lives for the better – you’re what he’s looking for.’
‘Do you think so?’ Louise smiled.
‘Of course, of course.’ Carmen rubbed her hands together in the chill morning air and Louise imagined being alone with Zeno with him kissing her, running his fingers down between her breasts …
‘Louise, are you okay?’
‘Yes, of course. I was thinking about what Zeno will want us to see at the Asela market and when we reach the Omo valley!’
Mid-morning Abebe drove to the Asela market on a tarmac road which ran along a high plateau overlooking a steep valley. Around the horizon were distant mountains that with the rising sun glowed like honey. A warm, dry wind blew down from nearby etched hills. Abebe, followed by Degu driving the second vehicle, left the road and approached the market along a cracked, sandy-coloured track. They parked under an acacia and, with the sun raking across the track, Louise, Carmen, Horst, Bassam, Zeno and the others left the 4WDs and joined farmers, merchants and villagers in the open-air market.
They wove their way among highly spirited groups with men laughing in open tella bet (beer houses). There were rows of trestle stalls displaying jars of acacia honey, sugar and tea, and then fruit stalls with women selling rather battered sweet bananas, pineapples, mango, papaya, avocado and grapes. Beyond that, vegetable stalls were piled with tomatoes, green beans, snow peas, broccoli, asparagus, cabbages and green chilli. On the ground were sacks of potatoes and onions. Further on, women sat on coloured mats alongside sacks of millet, sorghum, maize, rapeseed and coffee beans. People were bartering. Two men purchased a sack of millet and loaded it onto a mule.
‘Did the famine reach this region? Carmen asked Zeno. ‘There seems plenty of food here.’
‘There were pockets here around Asela where the famine was not as bad,’ replied Zeno.
He shrugged. ‘Now, with a little rain, farmers are again producing food for the markets.’
Beyond the vegetable stalls there were women sitting on the ground selling large earthenware pots, saucepans and kettles. Beside them other women wove baskets. Louise and Carmen watched and admired the women’s skill.
‘We must buy something, just a keepsake. The jewellery table over there looks a good bet,’ said Carmen.
Louise smiled. ‘Good idea, perhaps some cowrie shell necklaces for friends back home.’
They walked to a group of trestles laden with local made jewellery. Smiling women encouraged them to try on necklaces made of beads, metal bracelets, cowrie-shell rings, earrings, ornamental neckbands and shell chokers.
‘Trying on these necklaces and chokers is the easy part,’ said Louise. I’m not sure what to choose.’
‘These women seem patient so we can take our time. I sense they know we’ll buy something.’
When Louise tried on different threaded shell necklaces the stall owner rose from her chair and gently fixed the clasps.
‘Ameuseugnallo (thank you),’ said Louise. The woman smiled and nodded.
‘That’s it, these three necklaces.’ Louise gestured to the jewel-bedecked Oromo woman and, guided by her, counted out the appropriate birr (Ethiopian currency).
‘Okay, Carmen, what have you chosen?’
‘Metal bracelets with a matching pendant. That’ll do me.’
‘Louise looked around to see where Zeno had gone. At the outer limit of the market, cattle, goats, a few sheep and the highly prized donkeys were tethered, standing in dunged straw. The cattle’s pungent excrement was cooked by the morning sun. Zeno had walked over to talk to a man he knew. They seemed to be old friends. They discussed the man’s bartering for two goats. Eventually when the deal was made there was hand slapping and congratulations all round.
Louise and Carmen joined Zeno and observed the endless debates about the quality of livestock and whether prices paid were fair. Zeno explained how there was endless scrutiny about the bartering which he explained was part of the joy of coming to this market. He was enthusiastic as he described the market’s origin and central role. ‘If you lived here this is where you’d come to buy all you need. In Ethiopia, buying and selling almost everything is practised in markets like this. Coming to this market is a necessity for these people and it’s an important day out.’ Zeno’s burning love for the market and its people was apparent. ‘Markets like this lost much of their zest and many declined during the famine, but they didn’t disappear,’ he added.
They wandered from stall to stall and came across two young men selling multicoloured plastic sandals. Next to them were older men sitting alongside piles of spades, hoes and trowels.
‘In poorer regions in the far south people still dig and plough with sticks and become exhausted, so obtaining these tools here is evidence of improved agriculture,’ said Zeno. ‘But we’ve still a long way to go.’ He stood by Louise and followed the line of her gaze across the market. ‘We could spend more time here but we have a long day tomorrow and we should find the others and a migib bet (small café). There’s one with umbrella-shaded tables at the entrance to the market.’ In a brief second their eyes met. ‘Are you hungry?’ Zeno asked.
‘I sure am, and thirsty.’
At the entrance to the market they found the café tables behind which were some ironwood trees and a corrugated kitchen shed. There were ten people in their party, and Zeno and Abebe arranged tables so they could eat together. A man brought two jugs of tella, some bottles of water, and a woman brought a tray of buna and a basket of injera. Bassam and Carmen ordered bottles of bishaan amo (mineral water). Abebe passed the tella jugs around and filled plastic mugs. Zeno recommended that they order the traditional spicy meat and vegetable wot with injera, supplemented with a lamb (bege) fried meat dish (signa tibs) along with a mild yellow sauce (alicha). Abebe and Zeno ordered berberi (chilli) to give more heat and flavour to their food.
Bowls of the meat and vegetarian dishes were placed in the middle of the table. Everyone was now very lively. Zeno, Abebe and Degu tore off corners of injera, scooped up the meat and vegetables. Watching them carefully, the others scooped out the wot, signa tibs and alicha.
Over an hour passed. It was time to leave. Zeno settled the account and after thanking the staff, they stepped out from the umbrella shade and walked back to the parked vehicles. The market-day crowds were returning home. Many men flush with tella drove their donkeys while their women carried baskets laden with eggs, fruit, meat, vegetables and assortments of pots and pans.
Abebe and Degu drove back along the tarmac road to the campsite which they reached by late afternoon. Heavy clouds were building and replacing the clear blue sky of the warm day. When they reached the camp site, Zeno set the next morning’s departure for 9 am.
The Omo River Valley
ON THEIR THIRD night at the camp it did not stop raining. In the morning there was a persistent drizzle when they left for the Lower Omo Valley. The roads were awash as they drove on rubble-strewn gravel through low hills in an alternating thick, and then clearing mist. Louise felt she was driving into clouds. She could only just discern the plains below and the peaks of hills. From time to time as the road became steeper Degu’s lead 4WD disappeared into the mist. A rough signpost pointed their way to the Lower Omo and eventually to the towns of Arba Minch, Key Afar and Jinka. The drivers were struggling to see, so both vehicles stopped until the mist cleared.
Alongside them the leaves of wild-olive bush, eucalypt, tough acacia and long grass dripped. They sat in the vehicle, talking for an hour until there were just slivers of mist hanging ahead.
The further off the beaten track I go, the more I’ll experience the real Ethiopia, Louise thought as she stared at the scant, veiled eucalyptus trees. It stopped raining. ‘Zenabu no more,’ called out Zeno. He explained that zenabu meant it’s raining. Abebe switched on the engine, and they rode on through the valley’s seeping damp.
With the windows down they enjoyed the scent of flowering acacias. Rain had brought freshness to the landscape, and mist now gave way to bright light. Louise thought about the ebb, flow and stress of Ethiopian weather. She savoured this moment of dripping trees steaming in the warming sun.
On the drive to Arba Minch, Zeno took them to visit the Dorze tribe, famous for their weaving. He told them how the division of labour in this ancient tribe was well established – the women spun and the men wove bright multicoloured fabrics. Louise and Carmen watched Dorze women concentrating on their spinning, occasionally glancing at their visitors.
Zeno’s program was so full that every time Louise wanted to spend more time on what she was observing, the group had to move on. Her fingers tapped on a vacant loom as she gazed at the hunched weavers in this unlit room where for centuries they had practised their art. The effects of long hours bent in one position were taking their toll. Again and again, sitting in one position, they lifted the loom’s harness, inserted yarn into the fabric and, maintaining necessary loom tension, mumbled among themselves. The finished colourful weavings in red, blue and yellow were hung on racks on the hillside outside the village. Does anything change here, she wondered, or are they now just tourist attractions that will soon be dispensed with, become unemployed, die young and be forgotten?
On the journey to Jinka and Turmi in the heart of Hamar tribal country they visited the rival Banna tribe and their market at Key Afar. They saw goats and cattle being bought and sold, and bags of different grains being bartered.
Ten minutes from the market they passed a village and could hear loud music. Then, swirling women in bright cotton skirts called, rejoiced and sang as they danced. Spinning flamenco-like, with hands aloft, leaping with lightness and control, their bodies glistened with perspiration. Louise watched the spectacle, incredulous at the dancers’ energy, feather-light, and women rejoicing, despite drought, destructive storms and famine. Zeno told her they were celebrating a village woman’s successful birth.
Louise loved exploring the Lower Omo tribal lands from her first sight of the Omo River Valley. The early morning light on eucalyptus reminded her of home. She was fascinated by the children tending goats, by the different Banna, Hamar, Mursi and Karo tribal people, by women cooking over open fires, the village gardens and the tribal markets in animist Key Afar and Jinka. She thought endlessly about the complexities of tribal life, of disaster and salvation and of the people’s resilience, and thought then of her grandmother’s optimistic view about there being nothing to fear in life.
‘You’re in your dreams again,’ Carmen said. ‘Would you ever come and work here?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I may return one day to finish what I’ve started on this trip.’
‘And I’ll come back with you, if the timing is right.’
‘Carmen, really! What a brilliant idea! I’ll have to come back if I’m to understand the way of life of the Hamar women. I want to focus my research on them.’
‘You’d return for no other reason…?’
Beside the River Omo
ON THE LAST day before returning to Addis, Carmen and Louise stood on the banks of the Omo River. The slow-flowing tributaries across the sandy hinterland, in places no more than a trickle, surpassed all that Louise had anticipated. She had thought of the Omo as a nondescript, muddy crocodile river – just a series of temporary puddles that sometimes swelled and overflowed. Now, in a southerly Karo village she watched the river gather momentum, and realised how thousands of people depended on it. Would this land that they loved be taken from them if development such as sugar and cotton mills, and in particular, widespread tourism, with five-star hotels, came to the valley? She pictured these vibrant villages becoming ghost towns.
Louise felt minuscule in the valley which seemed to wrap itself around her. She heard faint distant thunder and realised this was the ‘rain-song swagger’ which, apparently, told the people that drought was behind them and that ample harvests ensued. Louise gazed towards the catchment zone, imagining the River Omo infiltrating the gardens and fields.
At this moment Zeno walked over and joined them. Sensing Louise’s awe, he talked enthusiastically about the different tribes that inhabited the valley. ‘I’m sure you’ll find out what inspires tribal people and what is injurious to their spirit,’ he said to Louise. ‘Observe these people’s dance of life because, despite hardships, it is rich, believe me.’ Then he asked, ‘And who are the people, young and old, who avoid a too early death?’
Louise thought this a strange and rather pessimistic question. What exactly does he mean? she wondered.
Zeno continued, ‘Remember, like us, they don’t want to die young, although as you know, throughout Ethiopia, and certainly here in the south, infant mortality rates are far too high.’
The group listened.
‘Finally, to be practical,’ he continued, looking directly at Louise but addressing his question to the group, ‘ask yourselves which young people in each tribe are most likely to go away, to escape to the city from what they think is rural drudgery.’
‘You mean drinking, parties and personal freedom?’ Louise ventured.
‘Those, of course – they can easily be caught up in an adventure and disown the family and tribe that have nurtured them. And if they become sick, as many of them do, they are isolated and cannot return to the haven of the tribe.’
‘Do some of them succeed when they leave the tribe? And who is most likely to succeed?’ Louise was intrigued.
‘Your answer is probably as good as mine. What do you think?’
Somewhat taken aback, Louise tried to provide an answer. ‘I suppose only the most resolute are likely to succeed and even they would need support.’
‘And what are their characteristics?’ Zeno asked her.
‘I don’t know enough about the young people who might leave their tribe, but I imagine the lure of bright lights and town life is attractive.’
‘Yes, that’s true, Louise. We can discuss this more fully later.’
Louise thought he suddenly appeared unnecessarily formal and perhaps even dismissive. Yet at that moment she suddenly felt his gaze was fiercely sexy; she sensed hi virility and found him irresistible. On occasions in front of the other students, Louise was embarrassed at his obvious interest in her while secretly she was flattered by it.
This was very different from her first teenage love at home in the Adelaide Hills with Rob, the undergraduate medical student.
