They landed in sweltering lowland Dire Dawa and enjoyed a
forty-minute cab up to the rarefied mountain air of Harrar. On the
way Roy witnessed a scenic panorama which more than made up for
Ethiopia’s poor visual arts tradition. Against the backdrop of verdant
fields and mountains, stunning Oromo women strode singlefile in
omnicolored garments, gargantuan loads of chatbalanced
precipitously on their ovoid heads and Nefertiti necks. One of them
caught Roy’s eye and almost knocked the breath out of him. There
had been no lack of sermonizing about the beauty of Ethiopian
women: European travelers raved about this for centuries, even
during times when dark skin was considered uncomely. Additionally,
there was something devastating about beauty in squalor. There was
nothing more sentimentally lovely than the innocence of the
destitute, provided they were beheld briefly and from a distance. This
was the principle behind much modern tourism.
Roy and Webele checked into a cheap guest house in town.
Immediately a young man with a crippled leg greeted them, though
he didn’t work there. He made plain his eagerness to befriend and
assist them any way he could. His name was Abora.
“As in Mount Abora?” Roy said. He recited: “An Abyssinian
maid, on a dulcimer she played?” The man scratched his head. He
had never heard of a Mount Abora. “Coleridge,” explained Roy. He
had not heard of Coleridge. Roy dropped it.
“We’re looking for the original coffee,” Webele told him
unceremoniously, “The best coffee there ever was. The fruit from the
tree of life in the Garden of Eden.” He laughed a little at his own
grandiosity.
Abora’s eyes grew thoughtful. “That is a fascinating request. I’ll
see what I can do. In the meantime, why don’t you order some
dinner? They have wonderful chicken here.”
The two men were indeed famished and sat down to eat. As soon
as the greasy bird was placed before them, though, Abora joined
them at their table, freely helping himself to the food on their plates.
Roy looked up at Webele, who only shrugged. It was common for
Ethiopians to eat from the same dish, but Roy was sure that this was
normally preceded by an invitation. Abora began to speak
animatedly and with his mouth full.
“You want to see Rimbaud house?” he said eagerly, “Or hyena
men? How about Haile Selassie’s house?”
ABYSSINIA
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