Sabah – “Land Below the wind”

Some of the rainforests of Sabah (Malaysian Borneo) are among the oldest in the world, over 130 million years, much older than the Amazon rainforest! It’s got to be experienced to be believed. My friend Joddy at Kota Kinabalu, on the other side of Sabah, had prepared me a little: ‘you’ll sweat like a pig so do not wear anything more than a cotton half sleeve shirt, jeans, and yes a good pair of trekking shoes’. It was hot and damp and I was oozing sweat from every pore, my shirt stuck to me like an extra layer of skin. Barely had I walked into the forests, the deafening sound of Cicadas set the tone, millions of them in one thick multilevel harmony.  Trekking in the pristine rainforests in Sepilok near Sandakan was a very different experience from the mangroves of Sunderbans or the deciduous forests of Corbett or Chitwan.

Minutes later I saw a large beautiful Orang-Utan gracefully swing from one branch to another, not too far above in the trees. He was accompanied by a couple of youngsters. In Malay Orang-Utan appropriately means ‘man of the forest’?  I couldn’t take my eyes off him – he was awesome, but gentle. He fondled the youngsters’ cheeks and ruffled their hair. It is very rare to see such a large male in the company of other Orangs. To the far side I noticed another face peering through the branches – obviously checking the mood of the large male. Later it became obvious that the three youngsters were females – hence the wary approach. As I watched in silent admiration, a group of marauding macaques arrived. The young Orangs tried to reach out and whack them but the macaques would simply duck out of reach. Quickly bored with the goings on, the big Orang disappeared into the forest. Soon, the rest melted into the dense foliage on their own.  Those few precious moments I was so close to the orangs. I never heard a sound from them but could sense a wide range of emotions expressed through hand movements and those ever so intelligent eyes; Fear, curiosity, happiness, aggression, playfulness-command – My God, what a wonderful creation.

The jungle was teeming with birds and the fallen trees were like huge log houses that hosted a million tiny lives. Giant Merkubong leaves drifted to the forest floor and lay in a carpet of rich fodder. The trees went up some 200 feet high and above creating a second canopy. Down on the forest floor however, plants seemed to grab the opportunity to spring from the ground wherever light could be captured. On a particular dense and narrow trail, it seemed someone put out the light for a good two minutes- it went almost twilight dark as a very large black rain cloud passed overhead. When the sun returned, a few leaves seemed to glow green as the first shafts of light struck a small branch. It is almost impossible for a photograph to capture that magical moment and transport the reader into the mystical realm of the rain forest.

The track continued to wind deeper into the forest when suddenly the air hung heavy with the smell of a rotting carcass. I was a little nervous. It reminded me of the time, many years ago, when I accompanied a friend’s father to the half eaten carcass of a villager’s buffalo that had been killed by a leopard near the edge of the Sal forests in Salboni, West Bengal. There are no big cats in these jungles so my curiosity overcame me as I moved toward where the smell seemed to emanate… there in a darkened clearing was the awesome three foot large Rafflesia Flower, the largest flower in the world. It is rare to actually see one, because they bloom once in a year maybe and stay in bloom only for six to seven days. After taking a few photographs and inspecting it carefully, with a wet hanky over my nose, I quickly got back to the trail, lest I forget the way. That’s the worst thing that can befall you in the jungle, especially in the rain forests.

Lee had helped me with ankle guards; it’s something like what the army wears, from shoes to shin. That protects against getting bitten by insects or reptiles on the ground, but there is no protection against anything above waist level. Therefore it is imperative that one is alert at all times. There were spider webs across the pathway at eye level, snakes aplenty and leeches. Then at one turn I scared a boar from his rummaging at the roots of a rotting tree. As it dashed off into the undergrowth, I could hear the excited call of a squirrel – a warning call that was a little delayed.

My calf leather hat (gifted to me many years ago) was dripping with sweat.  Any discomfort quickly melted away when I noticed in a narrow stream flowing to my right, a movement of something large- a closer inspection revealed a python in the throes of squeezing the life out of a smaller animal. I could see clearly as it rolled over and over and finally into the undergrowth and out of sight.

I walked the entire distance of 10 kilometres slowly; this was a lifetime experience and no way was I going to rush it. Every moment had to be savoured. My father a one-time shikari-turned-avid conservationist once told me, “If you want the forest to reveal itself - don’t make a sound. You need to learn to be part of its creatures so talking is an absolute no-no.”  It was exhausting but I only felt it hours afterwards when I put my feet up to rest. I realized how important it was to be appropriately fitted – correct clothes, good trekking shoes, a hat, and of course water!

Since I was staying at the Sepilok jungle lodge just outside the Sepilok Orangutan Centre which is on the edge of the forest, I could make it back for the night to get some well deserved rest before heading off to Labuk mangrove reserve, the following day. For most of the way the drive to Labuk Bay area is dirt track. The road winds through palm plantations & suddenly comes upon the dense mangrove forest.

Right at the edge of the brackish water stream that flowed towards the delta there were two distinct groups of noisy proboscis monkeys. Each was led by a large dominant male with about 10 to 12 females and babies. Their call sounds something like “Aarak Aarak”. These endangered monkeys have reached a critical point in their existence. And the forests that I was now standing in were one of the last remaining bastions for the Proboscis. And that was the reason I had come all the way to Labuk, spending a precious day before I headed back across Sabah and on to the island of Labuan, one of the best dive sites anywhere in the world, but that’s another story for another day.

He’s just 6 years old but strong and arrogant; he has hurt both the older B2 and Bokha in fierce battles and has attempted to dislodge them from the core area of the jungle. Though he hasn’t been given a name yet, his claim to fame - a direct descendant of the legendary first family of Bandhavgarh, Charger and Sita, he is the current heir to the Bandhavgarh throne. If you haven’t realized by now, I’m talking about a very special family of tigers.

The morning cold is brittle as it knife’s through the gap between my scarf and collar, sending a chill through my body. We pass the gates of the Tiger Reserve; thin mist steams up from the forest floor as the sun makes a feeble attempt to rise between the hills. But it isn’t long before shafts of light hit the tops of trees then descend gently upon a Cheetal stag, who gets on with the business of feeding, ignoring the purring jeep that rolls by.

There was a feeling of anxiety mixed with much expectation but so far, this morning, all we’d seen were Sambur, Cheetal, rummaging wild boar, a primly dressed Peacock and give or take a dozen black faces of the common Langur. Pug marks criss-crossed the soft sand over tracks of vehicles like ours and Ram Singh the tracker had his ears cupped for sounds that indicated movement of a tiger.  

I was promised a sighting by the enthusiastic naturalist Jigmi and the tigers obliged. My first sighting was the previous evening; we had seen Jhurjhura crossing an open area between two batches of high grass fields by the edge of forest.  This morning however we were keen on seeing her cubs, but in the jungle nothing comes on order. Bandhavgarh is everything, rocky, flat grasslands, deciduous wet forests and hills. Suddenly to the right of us an alarmed Sambur trumpeted a single loud horn. We waited and then again he sounded, the tiger was approaching the path in front of us. A minute later and it emerged from forest cover, and like a well trained child looked right then left before crossing.     

Like millions of other Indians, I’ve watched the saga of Charger and Sita unfold a hundred times on my television screen and now I stood face to face with one of their descendants. In fact this cub was part of Sita’s granddaughter Jhurjhura’s litter of three. This large female was only eighteen months old, yet she strolled confidently. Like all tiger sightings it lasted all of one minute.  But that morning I was among the lucky ones. While driving back, just below the shoulder of a hill, I saw Bhitri quenching her thirst in a stream among the short ferns. Bhitri also traces her ancestry to Sita & Charger, her mother was Banvai who was the daughter of Bachi, in turn the daughter of Sita and Charger. This time however we had just missed her consort, the current dominant male and heir to the throne of Bandhavgarh.

There are twenty five to twenty six tigers in the general area that’s almost two percent of the entire tiger population of India! “The family tree of the tigers in this forest is interesting. Almost all are in some way related to Charger and Sita”, says the dashing young Rajput,  naturalist Yadunath Sen. It is a fascinating experience, identifying each animal and linking it up to the family tree. On an assignment for an international organisation I ended up sighting a number of tigers from the Sita and Charger family.

It’s always best to read up on the animals in a park that you have selected to visit, the trip gets so much more meaningful. And if you are fortunate to have a previously identified family, like I did, it becomes an amazing experience.

The Park is divided into three segments. Each allows a limited number of tourists into the area. The favourite is section “One”, as it has the best chance of a tiger sighting. In this section there are four possible routes your jeep can take. Your entry permit allows you to select only one, which you first need to complete and report to central point before you can check out any other area. Selecting the correct route therefore makes all the difference. Based on the day, temperature and the previous day’s tiger movement, it’s the naturalist who takes the call, so you better have a good man on the job! One is allowed to enter the jungles twice daily, once early morning and again the later part of the afternoon into early evening. Everyone who visits the Reserve doesn’t miss a single outing be it early morning or late evening.

One evening we found ourselves hot on the trail of Jhurjhura’s mother Chakradhara who has her own litter of three cubs that are much younger, barely five months old. She keeps them hidden away in the rocky peaks close to the Bandhavgarh fort in the centre of the one hundred odd square kilometer core forest area. Our search took us all the way up to fort, an awesome sight. For those of you who have seen Angkor Watt, this is a mini version. Fantastic images of gnawing roots of ancient trees breaking through the roof of a gurukul, up ahead the Angkor-style single isolated temples bear witness to this ten century old man-made wonder. Only forty visitors are allowed up here per day, twenty at a time, so it’s desolate and the lone pujari at the top is a startling sight. But as you enter the temple of Laxman and Bharat, the brothers of Ram, the crackle of a ham radio is even more startling. Apparently every driver that goes up must report and be recorded at this one man check point. All the way up we could hear Chakradhara and monitor her movement through the jungle alarm calls. Once we even noticed she had crossed our tracks but kept firmly out of sight. I must warn you, the only time a tigress has killed in Bandhavgarh is when a local, stupidly, went too close while the cubs were around her. How close is close? That depends on the tigress. However noticing her reluctance to show herself we simply drove down without halting. It was disappointing but I was eventually lucky to see her, minus the cubs, on another day’s outing.

For everything you ever want to see in a jungle nothing is of greater significance than sighting a dominant male tiger at close quarters. That was my pièce de résistance of the entire trip.  Having spent a few days in search of the current dominant male in a jeep, I decided a change of strategy. The jeeps must follow the fixed routes, but if you hire an elephant you can go almost anywhere in the forest.  And so, thanks to senior naturalist Chandra Vir Singh, it wasn’t long before we found him lolling in a ravine almost hidden by bamboo. A magnificent male in his prime, a specimen of an animal, the arrogance and distain with which he treated the elephant riders was a perfect example of male dominance. I shot more than 180 frames from my SLR before the mahout turned to allow the other two passengers a chance to fire.  Then he rolled over once, stood up and swaggered into the undergrowth.  

My dream comes true, eventually…

High on an Elephant.

The elephant cow chosen as my ride had the most calm and docile temperament, perfect for a novice like me. The thick rope tied around her neck was loose enough for me to get a firm grip and each of my feet fit snugly in the hollow behind her huge ears. These are much the same as the small hollows behind our own ears where one can insert a fingertip. It’s so important to get the sitting posture right because when the animal ascends or descends a river bank, the gradient can be as much as forty degrees. Believe me if you don’t know how to sit you can easily fall off and hurt yourself badly and even be trampled by the beast.

I was attempting to learn not master, how to ride an elephant in a single day, just so that I could do a jungle safari bare-back for a couple of hours. So for me to get used to the undulating lumber under the guidance of the Mahout I did a few practise sessions around the river area where there were both, tall grass and the river embankment. While the mahout walked a few paces infront of the elephant, while I sat high up on it's shoulders. She was a truly gentle creature whose thick coarse strands of hair seemed to pop out of her head. I felt an immediate affection for her and absolutely no fear. Occasionally her trunk would fumble around to check where my feet were, then she’d let out an almost inaudible low rumble, it was a very comforting sound that resonated through my body. Elephants are known to communicate long distances in this manner, and use the soles of their feet as listening receptacles. At close proximity elephants love physical contact and can display a high degree of affection and concern for one another, even for the dead!
My next lesson taught me how to steer left, right, straight ahead or stop. I learnt some very simple commands; depending on which foot prodded her behind the ear and she’d move in the opposite direction i.e. a left foot meant right turn and opposite for the right foot. To get her moving ahead I would simply prod her behind the ears with both feet and call out ‘ugath’. To stop I dug my heels into her shoulders and call out ‘arr’. By the way I had to sit between her shoulders and head, the reason I mention this is because there is very little neck on an elephant and it seems you are almost sitting on her head. At the end of the day one must remember that elephants in Nepal only understand Nepali and the constant ‘conversation’ between a mahout and his elephant creates a very personal bond that cannot be achieved by some day scholar. Pachyderms on the Indian subcontinent and in Indo-China region are far more docile and can be trained very well. However the African Elephant which is much larger has been an extremely difficult animal to train. As a result there are very few safaris in Africa that offer elephant rides.
My feet tingled with excitement when the next morning the three elephants lumbered into the jungles of Chitwan. I was in the middle, a wise place to be! and as an additional precaution the regular mahout sat on her back, almost on her rump actually.
The one thing all my years visiting jungles has taught me – you can never be certain about what one will see. So I have learnt to thoroughly enjoy the very habitat and treat every bird or animal I actually see as bonus, this way I’m never disappointed. As we silently plunged into the tall grass that covered vast areas of the river bank, the feet of this heavy beast carved a path among the pale green blades. Despite the size we made no sound as we progressed to water’s edge. I could see the lead Mahout point to the opposite bank and there in the wet mud basked a crocodile. But it had seen us and in a few seconds disappeared, head first, into the brown rushing waters. We lumbered on into the waters; I must admit this was the only part that I was worried about. We tread straight across the waters and up the far bank; I was slowly getting the hang of bending against the angle to compensate the shifting point of gravity. It was much like sitting on a horse bucking in slow motion. We kept a steady pace behind the lead animal as long as we were in the grasslands. But now I could see the tree line approaching.

Once inside the forest my elephant required a lot more manoeuvring and I had to concentrate far more on my riding. This meant that I kept getting smacked in the face with thin branches and leaves and even getting my face full of spider webs and insects. One time it seemed I lost sight of the elephant in front until we nearly bumped into its rear. I almost came alongside the other beast when the mahout motioned with his head at the rhino standing straight ahead in the path. Neither animal wanted to give way and for a few unnerving moments there was a tense standoff, until the Rhino angrily stormed off into the brush.

There is ‘almost’ no danger when you are on top of an elephant not even from tigers; however the only trouble comes from large elephant bulls. I was told of rare instances when a mahout meets a tusker, his elephant is charged and chased out of the jungle. Though it is not often that they venture to the fringes of the forest, however in Chitwan wild tuskers are known to raid the pens when the females are in oestrus apparently that’s how my elephant became pregnant! Mostly elephant cows are used to ferry people and tourists in the area.
It was a great morning out in the jungle; we had seen Cheetal, Sambhar, peacock by the dozen and a number of other birds and animals but above all that I was most happy with the fact that I rode into the jungle on an elephant and didn’t need the mahout to come to my rescue at any time during that entire trip.
That night slept came easily and certainly not because of the large glass of Raxshy, the local liquor, which I happily sipped through the evening. Only the loud but distant roar of a tiger sometime in the early parts of pre dawn opened my eyes, albeit for a few seconds. In the jungle I am so consumed with happenings around me that nothing else can occupy even the fringes of my imagination. It is in this state I know I will encounter that one moment, that something I’ll see or experience which will remain a special spark for the rest of my life. My moment came early the next morning. As I stepped out of the wooden cottage, there partly hidden by the bushes near the river a large antlered Sambhar grazed, its coat was dappled in the soft sunshine of morning. At the sound of the door opening it razed its head, looked at me and slowly waded across the river and into the grasslands on the opposite bank. I sat there for a long, long while staring aimlessly after it, the morning was cold and mist inches high above the undergrowth. To the left came the hysterical call of a lapwing screaming ‘did-you-do-it?!’ while grey wagtails dipped their tails to the sun as they hopped across the narrow strip of grass a few yards away from where I sat on the steps of the cottage.
Surely this was paradise anew.

Gelert the faithful hound

The sign said Saracen’s Head Inn. How quaint. We parked the car opposite and walked back towards the small stone bridge that seemed to skip over a rushing stream; ‘it’s the river Colwyn’ they said sternly. There in the middle of the prettiest little Welsh village, you could ever imagine, stood the centuries old stone cottage of the great Prince Llewellyn of Gwynedd, Wales.

We turned left and padded on softly by the side of the gurgling stream in silence. There below the trees draped in yellow flowers, on the other side of the small iron gate, the grazing sheep stopped and stared suspiciously. The cold weather, the sight of so many ravens in the trees and the thought of the great hound Gelert’s memorial … I could be walking back into the mystical age of the druids. The sheep, now seemed everywhere, the church and mountains followed our every step…intruders into the peaceful silence. A large tree umbrella-ed the two stone slabs that told the story of the loyal Wolf-Hound… as we walked the last few steps towards what looked like a small grey cottage without a roof, the stone image of Gelert look out at me from within the four walls.

The legend says that sometime in the 13th century Welsh Prince Llewellyn pronounced “Thew-wel-lyn” went hunting. Gelert his Irish Wolf hound, a gift from the English King John, who always accompanied him mysteriously, could not be found. On his return however Gelert was there to greet him. Noticing that the dog was scarred & stained in blood he rushed to check on his baby son’s cot. It was empty! Enraged, he drew his sword and plunged it into Gelert’s side. With a loud moan Gelert fell dead. Just then the cries of a child grew louder… frantically he searched the cabin and there wrapped in a bundle of cloth unharmed lay his son, beside the body of a large wolf, filled with sorrow, Llewellyn never ever smiled again.

As we stood at the memorial…built in a small hamlet lodged between the mountains of Snowdonia…suddenly it seemed all the sheep had all melted into thin air, I looked left and to the right … no not even on the slopes of the hills… nowhere…it was distinctly eerie … I paused…looked into the face of Gelert once more… then turned and walked silently back, crossed the stone bridge and drove away into the hills.

Bendith Tad

Lalibela – “The bees recognised his sovereignty”

Our guide Fikreselassie points up “See that green hill? It’s the Mount of Olives, and to its left you can see the river Jordan”. He smiled as I raised my head from the camera in surprise. “We are another image of Israel; don’t forget Solomon was the father of our first Emperor Menelik 1!” There are 11 monolithic churches in this 12th century ‘New Jerusalem’ town area, situated in this mountainous region in the heart of Ethiopia. Lalibela is still a high place of Ethiopian Christianity almost a millennium later, a place of pilgrimage and devotion.

We arrived in Lalibela in the afternoon hence could only trek around the town area as the churches are closed to public at five. Walking back down the cobbled road to our lovely hotel, perched on the very edge of a hill top, we passed a house where a party was going on. Heads popped out from behind the curtain which doubled as the front door, “Ma friends wanna’ ave sum beers? Come on come in!” I couldn’t help being just a trifle nervous because the greeting startled me, but it was obvious they were a simple lot who just wanted to show some hospitality and make new friends. The host’s brother was an Azmari who played a Masenqo making up the words as he went along. Azmaris are the local folk singers who play a single string fiddle and can mainly be seen and heard in Tej Bets or local ‘honey wine bars’. It was great fun and the party ended with almost the entire party walking us back to the hotel gates. Well that’s Ethiopia for you maan.

Darkness comes early in these mountains and the temperature can drop to about 8oC. We decided that our early dinner would be a pure Ethiopian experience. Out came several decanters of Tej, the local wine made from honey. It’s delicious and may I add quite strong but in Lalibela the very ambience is intoxicating so that makes for a serious high.

A tall basket was put in front of each of us. Then a huge plate with food was placed on them. “This looks like an Indian dosa,” I told my friend, Tesfa. “We call it Injeera”, he explained, “the national bread of Ethiopia, that’s meat, vegetable, egg curry, and salad with a big chilli.” Enjeera tasted tangy, a bit like idli when toddy is used for fermentation of the batter. The meal ended with several cups of hot black Ethiopian coffee. Legend says some shepherds discovered the red coffee berries which when eaten kept them awake and alert. Coffee was first eaten long before it became a liquid drink. That discovery is attributed to the monks of Ethiopia who used the coffee to stay awake during their long nights of prayer. It fanned out from Ethiopia to Egypt and Yemen before making its way to Europe and the rest of the world.

Now all that was left to make a fantastic evening of it was someone to regale us about the great Lalibela mystery! And Tesfa obliged. His face grew grave, and it certainly wasn’t the result of large quantities of Tej. “Actually you know this place was called Roha before 1100 AD. Then it was called Lalibela after the Ethiopian king of the same name. In Ethiopia we believe that the animal world can foretell the future. Legend has it that the royal baby’s mother saw him lying happily in his cradle surrounded by a dense swarm of bees. She immediately knew that he would become king”. He looked straight at me hoping to see some reaction. I guess my eyes were open wide enough because it seemed to encourage him to tell us a long and interesting story of Lalibela. That night I became a loyal subject of King Lalibela.

The next morning I was up at 1 AM. Now, before you think I’m nuts let me clarify: The way they address time is at a complete tangent to the rest of the world. The first daylight hour is calculated as the start of a 24 hour day. So whenever the sun rises AM commences. In other words I got out of bed at what would have been 6 AM anywhere else in the world. The Ethiopians follow a clock that has no relation to time as calculated from Greenwich. Their calendar observes 13 month in a year, 12 of 30 days each and a 13th of 5 to 6 days depending on whether it’s a leap year. All of the country operates on these measures. Go figure. But that’s just it; in Ethiopia a visitor can almost ‘live’ the experience of ancient culture and inexplicable mysteries.

Later, armed with newly acquired knowledge of Lalibela, Tesfa and I made our way determinedly across the very narrow river Jordon, walked hurriedly over the Mount of Olives and down a steep slope, when a young man named Assefa stopped me in my tracks. “Do not walk so fast, you’ll fall into the giant well”. “What well?” I asked “The church of Bet Giyorgis (St George)” he shot back, pointing ahead. Less than 75 yards in front was the distinctive Georgian cross which marked the church roof. It took my breath away, positively the most famous symbol of Lalibela churches and Ethiopia at large. It’s been referred to as the “Eighth Wonder of the World” and is a prized UNESCO heritage site. Carved 30 meters deep into one single piece of solid rock bed it is a stunning work of art. To get down one had to enter a tunnel on the far side that finally led into the church yard below. As I stepped out of the tunnel and faced the church from the corner of my eye I noticed something very unusual in the precipice wall behind me. I spun around shocked to see a whitened skull staring right back. It was placed atop a heap of dried human bones stored in an open crypt in the precipice wall. Seeing the shock writ across my face Tesfa explained “These are the bones of ancient pilgrims who came to worship at St. George and died here. Their remains are preserved to commemorate their devotion”.

Before I go any further I want you to understand that the churches are not simply built by carving into the hill sides, it means first digging down to create the outer shape and then carving into the rock to hollow out the rooms, shape pillars, windows and door ways….its an incredible sight, like nothing I have ever come across. No it’s not the same as the cave temples and monastries in India nor Petra in Jordan. It is a staggering feat of engineering that has left most architects and archaeologists gaping. Even with modern technology it would be extremely difficult to produce such edifices. Though not impossible, it would certainly take more than the well-documented 40 years it took the ancients.

The entire system is in some way connected by a labyrinth of tunnels that network one church area into another. I investigated one tunnel that worked its way upward and I actually end up having to climb out of the ground to reach the entrance of the church. And no, it was not hot inside, remember Lalibela is about 8,000 feet up and the weather is lovely throughout the year. We spent the whole day scouring the tunnels from one church to another. There are no electric lights and at every church entrance you need to take off your shoes so most of the way we walked bare footed. Inside the churches are three important elements, the guardian monk deep in mediation or standing in a very unusual manner praying, a massive leather bible and the sacred musical instruments for worship.

Finally I had witnessed both faces of Lalibela. First was the celebration of joy and the second, deep devotion to God. And it is the sheer simplicity and innocence of this beautiful people that binds both faces together.

As the four-wheel-drive winds down the mountain, cold air gives way to warmer winds of the plains, my minds trips back to the mystical rock hewn churches and the chanting heads that bowed down in veneration, hymned by unspeakable words in praise of God. I wonder what allowed me to remain there…..a voyeur into the lives of pious priests who paid no attention to my constant movement, my every effort to get that one great pious ‘shot’.

They simply got on with their labour of devotion.

Axum

We were sitting on the terrace garden of our hotel a hot sumptuous meal of injera and chicken stew, the night was cold. There were no guests around at the time so the staff was down to minimum. Tesfa, my Ethiopian friend and I were deep in conversation when the night was interrupted by several low hoots that ended in high pitched crescendos; the distinct call of the Hyena. Immediately the dogs from the village to the right on the far side of the valley went into a barking frenzy. ‘Hyenas’ I said and Tesfa nodded, ‘pretty early for such a close call’. I walked silently to the edge by the railing…. two large mongooses were up on their hind quarters peering out into the night. My approach startled them further and they dashed off into the undergrowth. The incident was a classic example of the close proximity people share with wildlife in Africa and the flip side of what I had experienced that very morning.

Standing guard by the mighty Stele that was surrounded by a mini field of lesser stelae was the frail but proud figure of Atu Brhane, an old loyalist of the late Emperor Haile Selassie. In his hands was an aging automatic and he was wearing a badge on his chest which read- the Legion of Jesus. It was exciting just to be there in the presence of this paradox; an ancient symbol of power and a waning warrior of a fallen king. The litany that sounded loud from the cathedral of Haile Selassie which lay just behind me signaled the final act of worship before the faithful dispersed to break their fast.

Carried by the thrill of being part of this pageantry I decided to enter the tomb of the ‘False Door’ which is actually that of King Remhai, an Axumite. I have entered the tombs of Ramses and even Tut Ankhamun, but here I had the strangest feeling, the hair on the nape of my neck bristled. The stone sarcophagus lay intact but that was all that remained of the plundered tomb; it had been stripped of all its finery by ancient grave robbers.

At the foot of the standing Stele I met Martin Hofinger. An Austrian, Martin used up his last two years’ holidays, two months a year, traveling from South Africa up to Ethiopia. Experience writ on the furrowed face, his travels have been both interesting and wonderful, he told me. ‘Africa is a fascinating continent and Ethiopia so mysterious it eased the enormous effort riding alone across the country’.

Queen of Sheba

The women wailed before Solomon, each claming the baby was hers. The great king drew his sword to divide the child between the two. It was then that the true mother cried out ‘My lord, give my child to her’. And so once again the great king meted out his perfect judgment. Throughout my stay in Ethiopia every custom or memory seems to trace its origin to the Jewish King Solomon. Indeed the royal households were considered Solomonic, because Menelik I the first emperor of Ethiopia was the Son of Solomon and Sheba, the most beautiful woman in the world. In the midst of the undulating green fields with a rocky hill to one end, stood the ruins of the palace of this famed Queen of yore. Entering the main palace, I savoured very precious moments in the presence of the spirit of ancient royalty. A step into the great hall of meeting- the murmur of invisible court nobles grew louder in anticipation of her imminent presence. I couldn’t contain my excitement for we had now moved into the royal bakery; there on the far side was the 3000 year old brick oven and at other end, the bread stores! One last doorway and there on the floor were the remnants of the royal shower. Images of grace, beauty in female form, pampered with perfume and flowers by several doting handmaids….her shape revealed beneath a shawl of the finest muslin, naked, proud and royal.

Down the lat few stairs out of the complex, I walked in a trance-like state.

Ethiopia is old; old beyond all imaginings. As Abyssinia, its culture and traditions date back over 3,000 years. And far earlier than that lived ‘Lucy’ or Dinkenesh, meaning thou art wonderful, as she is known to the Ethiopians-the oldest hominid, (3.5 million years old) whose remains were found in a corner of this country of mystery and contrasts.

The Ark of the Covenant

Behind the cathedral of Haile Selassie stand two structures of import to the Ethiopian Nation; one centuries old, the other as recent as 1940.

We make our way though the cathedral grounds amidst the faithful streaming out, still some bowed down to kiss the ground in reverence, yet others rolled in sacrificial penance to the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. The holiness of Axum maybe legendary but to actually stand upon the soil and witness such acts of devotion ties your stomach in knots. Few places can transport you back in time as the Axum Zion Monastery. Only the Nike shoes of a Dutch tourist keeps one well grounded in the present time zone.

One cannot come to terms with the fact that this is still a well utilized edifice of prayer and worship. As silently as possible I float past the chanting monks into the place of prayer and the red curtains of the holy of holies, barefoot and meek. The soft sunlight that drifts in from the timeless wooden doors seems like rays from heaven resting upon the heads of pious priests. As quietly as I entered, I leave.

Theodoras, my guide points me to the newer structure built by Queen Eteqe Menen, wife of the late Emperor Haile Selassie, to house the Ark of the Covenant, which was hitherto in the Zion Monastery. We could not even come close to this, the holiest shrine in all of Ethiopia. There in the Sanctum Sanctorum is believed to lie the original Ark of the Convenant- a decorated container that holds the stone tablets that God wrote the 10 commandments and other laws on and gave to Moses on Mount Sinai. The container itself is a seat of sacrifice upon which the Jewish priests would make blood sacrifices on behalf of Jewish individuals. Upon each side of the seat is a Cherub facing down at the sacrificial blood. Below the sacrificial seat is where the tablets are kept. The belief is that when the seat had no blood the cherubs could see the law i.e the iniquity of man, but after a sacrifice the cherubs saw the innocent blood instead.

A number of scholars debate whether this is the original and wonder how it landed up in Ethiopia from Israel, where it was lost in one of the wars that destroyed the temple. No one can dare venture into the premises let alone work on authenticating the age of what lies inside and so the mystery only gets more fascinating.

Every Orthodox Church, cathedral or monastery in Ethiopia is constructed to conform to the basic principles of the structure of the ancient Jewish temple of Jerusalem. Whatever the outer shape, the inner components incorporate the Holy of Holies, an area where only the Priest can enter. Then the general area of prayer, remember the men and women sit separately. Then there is the area where the holy instruments for the singing of psalms and hymns take place, finally an outer are for reading of the great book and general prayer.

“Your land is my land and your God, my God”
Only these words of devotion from Ruth the Moabite as she followed her Jewish mother-in-law into the land of Israel after the death of her husband can compare with the piety and devotion of this people; who, since the days of the Great Queen, have held steadfast to everything ‘Israel’.

Shalom sweet people, shalom