“Thank you” in
Amharic is Amesegënallô, pronounced am-a-sig-in-al-la. Perhaps the best advice to offer before visiting the
Ethiopian highland is practise saying it; it is an oft-repeated phrase.
Yet, as kind-hearted as the Amhara people of the mountain region of Semien Wollo are, it is underpinned with
a gentle humour and natural beauty.
The Semien Wollo Zone is in the mountainous northwest of the country, a region dominated by 3,000-metre-high
basalt escarpments and immeasurable canyons. It is a majestic landscape through which our party of six, aged
between 24 and 63, were about to embark on a four-day trek.
From the Ethiopian capital of Addis Ababa we flew to Lalibela, a dusty northern town at 2,500 metres that
comes thrillingly alive during the annual pilgrimage to the church of St. George. Referred to by our guide as
“Africa’s Jerusalem,” Lalibela is famed for its 13 spectacular monolithic churches, carved below footfall out
of solid volcanic rock somewhere between 700 to 900 years ago. They are an architectural marvel: stately,
solid and dignified.
Tourism has reached Lalibela, but, for the most part, it is sustainable and community-driven. And it is with
TESFA (Tourism in Ethiopia for Sustainable Future Alternatives, community-tourism-ethiopia.com), a
non-governmental organization set up to assist rural communities to generate income through tourism, with
which we organized our trek.
Next day six of us were whisked at low, but nevertheless ostensibly break-neck speed, to an adjoining peak.
The hours passed in silence, thanks to a combination of eye-widening views and eye-shutting motoring. Asphalt
turned to loose stone, which turned to rocky track and then finally to field, where we stopped.
A party of grinning children, bright-eyed and dressed in rags, hold out hands and from behind others welcomed
us to the Mequat Mariam community. In the distance was an open-air, thatched tukul made from stone and mud,
the type with which we became familiar over the next few nights. In it were a selection of chilled drinks and
tables set out for lunch — behind it, two further buildings: a kitchen and a toilet. Idyllic and isolated
we’d been deposited in the middle of a beautiful bouncing plateau, miles from the nearest running water,
electricity and towns appearing on Google maps.
Every trek needs its signature moments — unexpected sights or experiences around innocent-looking corners —
but this is lowly Ethiopia; what could it offer to compete with the world’s established ways?
Our group of six, plus our English-speaking guide, Abebe, a local guide and two heavily laden donkeys, had
been walking through the mid-afternoon heat since lunch in the tukul along roughly cobbled lanes, lined with
pungent eucalyptus but otherwise awkward and featureless, for close to three hours when Africa answered
us.
Out of seemingly nowhere, and timed to greet grumbles about the length of the first day’s documented “short
walk” to camp, the ground suddenly fell away to reveal a first taste of the week’s main course.
The panorama stole our balance. We sat. Far below, and in the highest definition, a patchwork of yellow and
green, stretched across the plain to where the land rose again to meet another flat-topped summit some 80
kilometres on the horizon. Shadowy cracks took the eye into colossal valleys made small by perspective while
the sun picked out roofs of Muslim and Christian houses of worship, shining like new nails. Between the earth
and us an eagle swooped and a flock of something more congenial fluttered by. Back up the slopes towards our
viewpoint, baboons ran amok, preparing to outwit farmers for their barley.
Later, as we walked along the cliff edge trying not to look at the vertiginous view on our right in case
of
a slip, it rained. I counted only 49 heavy droplets landing on me personally, but as if nature was competing
with
herself a rainbow appeared to our left — “look this way; no, look this way.”
Abebe stopped and pointed at the silhouette of a tukul on the precipice of an unfathomably deep valley.
“That’s where you sleep tonight,” he said.
Featuring a “loo with a view” — complete with a throne which looked out across a similar vista — the
three-building hamlet welcomed us with comfortable beds, freshly made bread and chicken stew, all prepared by
women from a nearby village.
The deal between TESFA means a proportion of trek proceeds goes directly into the hands of community elders.
For their part, each village on the route builds and maintains the accommodations and employs locals to cook
and clean. The rest of the money is spent on administration and capital projects. Abebe told me that since
TESFA’s conception five years ago they have raised almost enough money for a new health centre.
The trek continued in a similar vein. We rose early for each day’s hiking. Neat, thatched villages came and
went as we zigzagged through the heart of the plateau, and with them its young inhabitants appearing from
behind bushes and buildings giving a wave and a smile, occasionally shaking our hand.
We were welcomed into a rural school to see an impromptu English class, delivered by a beaming young teacher,
the children taking a break between herding cattle or carrying heavy pails of water.
On the final day we came across some elders and a priest relaxing with some tej, a potent homemade honey wine
served warm. Like using hops in beer, its natural sweetness was tempered by the leaves and twigs of a
blackthorn bush. On a bushy plain, surrounded by eucalyptus trees, they shared with us an old tin can. The
liquid was bitty and grainy, but we supped up the fortifying brew. We spent around half an hour with these
elders, proud and knowing, poor in possessions but wealthy in generosity.
“Amesegënallô,” we ventured, as we began the final part of our trek. It didn’t come out right, but the
sentiment was there. Granted, it may have been the heady brew, but our heads were reeling at the experience.
Fleeting but never forgotten. •
Photos by Adam McNaught-Davis and Jessica Lindon
