The Debre Damo saga: the night

The mountain top is really extensive, scattered with neat stone constructions. A groups of monks in colourful robes is holding a meeting under a tree on the edge of the cliff. The landscape behind their circle is as vast as the view can be from an altitude of 3,000 m. After removing my shoes and kissing the pillars, I penetrate the church compound consisting of a yard of dry earth and yellowed weeds.

The abbot, whose only salutation upon meeting me was “A hundred and fifty” in spelt out syllables to signify the amount I had to pay in respect of admission fee, hands me a candle, then gets someone to show me into a hay-strewn barn. When I ask about the lavatory, the monk makes a sweeping gesture that I take to mean that anywhere outside is good. As I unpack my bag, I realise how silly it was to bring soap and shampoo to a place that doesn’t even have running water or a bathroom.

And what about drinking water? The strenuous walk has depleted my reserves, I have sweated a lot in the intense heat, especially climbing uphill, and now my lips and mouth are parched. I yearn for a drop of liquid, but don’t dare to finish off the last of my bottle.

I take a walk around the houses and the surrounding grounds. The views all around are breath-taking, or hair-raising if you get too near the edge, which of course lacks any protection where the cliff falls head-on into a vertical precipice. I watch an amazing sunset behind the silhouette of a bare tree whose black branches make a perfect picture against the delicate hues of the twilight.

A young deacon beckons me to get into his house that he shares with an older monk. The room is dark and all I can make out is the shape of a big haystack in a corner and holy images hanging on the walls. It looks like a cross between a stable and a chapel. I am treated to some coarse ingera that tastes gritty and is eaten with no sauce, but just patted into a little mound of salty and spicy berebere. I ask for water and my bottle is filled with a liquid that even by candlelight looks worryingly greenish. I’m only glad I can’t inspect it closer in the dim light. The first drought has a distinc brackish taste.

Back to the barn I ask the abbot for another bottle hoping for better luck, but it’s got just the same weird tang. I am uncomfortable with drinking it, but I have no choice, so I pinch my nose and gulp it down.

I lie on my straw mat for an early night accompanied by the rattle of the wind blowing against the corrugated iron roof and whistling into the crevices of the walls. A little before midnight a bell is sounded summoning the monks to the church. I peep out of my loft into the yard to see them approach slowly holding a lantern, then sneak behind the curtain barring the church entrance. I hesitate whether to join them, but sleepiness and reserve prevail.

I lie down again for more sleep, but when I hear a chanting recitation interspersed by singing, I steal down the steps and spy through the crack of the door. Inside, a very bright gas light dazzles my sight and I see a few monks stand in this antichamber leaning on their staff and singing. The rest are mysteriously hidden from my sight. The night sky is studded with an incredibly beautiful flowering of stars that acquires a richness of detail and depth I’ve never seen before.

I wake up several other times during the night as the ceremony is performed all along so as to become a soft lullaby that accompanies my light sleep. At 5.30 it is still ongoing. At 7 I hear a bang on the door, but I was already awake.

I take an early morning walk, then squat at the edge of the cliff to eat a breakfast of bread, jam and as little as possible of that fetid water. Some deacons see me and want to show me their stone house with an untidy interior. Nearby I can see the tanks dug into the ground where rainwater is stored for drinking. The surface is covered in green algae.

The friendly abbot takes me into the church. Then I gather my bits and pieces and hoist myself down the drop into the open world. Following the same way as yesterday, in about two hours I get to the junction where lots of people are waiting to go to the market at Bizzet. Finally I can buy clean water and drink it. I'm so dehydrated that in no time I drink two large bottles.

The Debre Damo saga: the night

The mountain top is really extensive, scattered with neat stone constructions. A groups of monks in colourful robes is holding a meeting under a tree on the edge of the cliff. The landscape behind their circle is as vast as the view can be from an altitude of 3,000 m. After leaving the shoes outside and kissing the pillars, I penetrate the church compound consisting of a yard of dry earth and yellow weeds.

I’m shown into a barn strewn with hay and given a candle by the abbot, whose only salutation upon meeting me had been “A hundred and fifty” in spelt out syllables, that is the amount of the entrance fee. When I ask about the lavatory, the monk makes a gesture that I take to mean that I should just go outside into the open. As I unpack my bag, I see how silly of me it had been to bring soap and shampoo to a place that doesn’t even has a bathroom.

And what about drinking water? The strenuous walk has depleted my reserves, I have sweated a lot in the intense heat, especially climbing uphill, and now my lips and mouth are parched. I yearn for a drop of liquid, but don’t dare to finish off the bottom of my bottle.

I take a walk around the houses and the surrounding grounds. The views all around are breath-taking, or hair-raising if you get too near the edge, that of course has no protection and falls head-on into a vertical precipice. I watch an amazing sunset behind the silhouette of a bare tree whose black branches make a perfect picture against the delicate hues of the twilight.

A young deacon beckons me to get into his house that he shares with an older monk. The room is dark and all I can make out is the shape of a big haystack in a corner and holy images hanging on the walls. It looks like a cross between a stable and a chapel. I am treated to some coarse ingera that tastes gritty and is eaten with no sauce, but just patted into a little amount of salty and spicy berebere. I ask for water and my bottle is filled with a liquid that even by candlelight looks worryingly greenish. I’m only glad I can’t inspect it closer in the dim light. The first drought has a distinct taste of stagnating vegetable matter.

Back to the barn I ask the abbot for another bottle just to see if it is any better, but it’s got just the same weird tang. I am uncomfortable with drinking it, but I have no choice, so I pinch my nose and gulp it down.

I lie on my straw mat for an early night to the rattle of the wind blowing against the corrugated iron roof and whistling into the crevices of the walls. A little before midnight a bell is sounded calling the monks to the church. I peep out of my loft into the yard to see them come along slowly holding a lantern, then sneak behind the curtain barring the church entrance. I hesitate whether I could join them, but sleepiness and reserve prevail.

I lie down again, but when I hear a chanting recitation set in, accompanied by singing, I steal down the steps and spy through the crack of the door. Inside, a very bright gas light dazzles my sight and I see a few monks stand in this outer room leaning on their staff and singing. The rest are hidden from my sight. The night sky is studded with an incredibly beautiful flowering of stars that acquires a richness of detail and depth I’ve never seen before.

I wake up several other times during the night and the ceremony is being performed all along so as to become a distant lullaby that accompanies my light sleep.  At 5.30 it is still ongoing. At 7 I hear a bang on the door, but I was already awake.

I had an early morning walk, eat my breakfast of bread, jam and brackish water squatting near the edge of the mountain. Some deacons see me and they show me into a stone house with untidy interior, passing next to the water tanks dug in the rock where the water I drank must come from. Its surface is covered in algae.

I see the inside of the church accompanied by the nice abbot, gather my bits and pieces and hoist myself down the drop into the open world. Following the same way as yesterday, in about two hours I get to the junction where lots of people are waiting to go to the market at Bizzet.