The Nile is elusive, like a strange enigma. Not only does it begin in several places, but it also hides and sneaks through rocky gorges. I look for it in the dried-up riverbeds and in trickling streams. In Africa, water remains a seasonal revelation, a pure miracle.
“This coffee needs a cigarette,” smiles Elijah, setting down a cup, having just slurped the last dredges of thick, sweet arabica. It was poured moments ago by a young coffeemaker. She took her clay pot off the hot coals and came to us, swaying her hips, clad in a floral dress. It might be just a crummy street café for tired drivers to rest at when they pass it by. Maybe they do serve dust and exhaust fumes with their breakfast specials. Her dress might have a hole in it. But when she pours the piping-hot liquid into the cups, she is an African queen.
We’re about to embark on the hardest part of our journey. For the first hour and a half, we will be driving down the coiled road, trying to avoid wooden carts, packed buses and pieces of chipped rock, wearing brakes thin on dozens of twists and turns. When we reach the bottom of what Ethiopians call Abay (a rocky gorge between the cities Gohatsion and Dejen, both located at 2600m above sea level), we will be stopped by the army to check if we aren’t carrying any weapons or explosives we could use to blow up the most important bridge in the country. It is 300-metres long and can support vehicles with up to 12-tonne loads. Built by Japanese constructors, the bridge connects the north and south of Ethiopia. Its destruction would slash the country in half.
Driving across the bridge is just a minute-long thrill. We are not allowed to stop, and there is just enough time to take clandestine photos of the concrete pylons, steel ropes and dark-brown water beneath the structure. Abay River is the smaller sister of the Blue Nile. It gives the Nile all its waters.
The closer we approach to the bottom of the canyon, the hotter it gets. We are dizzy and sweating. The coffee didn’t help, and our early departure isn’t working to our advantage, either. Noon is still hours away, and the heat is already insufferable.
“Let’s keep going,” I say.
Let’s get out of here, I think.
The way up is slower, it’s taking longer. The car is dragging its weight, engine howling. Water is dripping from the oil cooler, hissing under the bonnet. We drive past two broken trucks, packed with bags of freshly-picked cotton. When we pass the third, two of its tyres bust just as we reach it. The booming noise echoes among red rocks.
The camp of last hope
The Holy One is not pleased to see me. His eyes remain cold when he smiles, baring his small, sharp teeth. The air is stifling. The man turns his slim hand with its back upwards, making an inviting, yet still commanding gesture.
“Sit down,” he says, patting the air above the bench made of large pieces of eucalyptus trunks. I wait, while he talks in Amharic to a bald man with a hooked nose. Every now and again, they glance toward me and resume talking in hushed tones.
Adunya, the teenage shepherd who led me here, was told to wait outside. He has to stand behind the door made of corrugated sheet, where a meek crowd has gathered. Everyone who comes to the mountain must register first and receive a blessing. People are flocking, sitting and lying under a makeshift tarp marquee someone has stretched between trees. I was pushed right through, no effort required. White skin was enough to make way, flanked with surprise and wariness.
We came here with talkative Adunya across hills and rocky slopes, along riverbeds that have been long dry this time of year, and ploughed-up fields, waiting for the first rains to come. We left at dawn, and now the sun is high in the sky, burning hot.
I’m sitting in this dark hut with no windows, waiting for the men to finish. Finally, the bald one
