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THE ROAD TO HARAR, WALLED CITY OF CONFUSION.
Harar was an Islamic city state with some degree of autonomy that nestled in
the mountains five hundred kilometres from Addis Ababa. The drive turned out
to be a marathon journey. We dropped down out of the Entoto mountains and
cruised along the 1000m high plains of the Awash region. After Awash
station, on the famous Djibouti railway line, we turned right and left the
asphalt. The Weasel bounced over stones both large and small and we drove
parallel to the peaks on our right for an hour. At Mesie we turned south,
left the comforting company of the railway tracks, and climbed into those
peaks.
“Someone fought a loosing battle on this road protecting Addis” I said to
no-one in particular.
“What do you mean?” someone replied.
“Well, we’ve passed three knocked out BTR 60’s, two BMP’s, (Soviet made
armoured troop carriers) and over there” I pointed out of the window “ is a
PT76 amphibious tank. “
“Yes” said Sam, noticing these for the first time.
“And all of them are pointing away from Addis, so who ever blew them up, was
heading for the capital. Rather ties in with the fall of the last lot I
think” But no one was very interested in history, we just wanted to get to
Harar. So we climbed on up into the hills. The heat grew intense so we took
the roof panel off and slept while Stuart drove. Every two hours we changed
drivers. Just after dusk we pulled over and I said to Cisca,
“Hey we’ve just done 4000 km’s since Dar es Salaam and we’ve been on the
road for three weeks.” She smiled
“Hmm didn’t think it was that far!”
Just before dusk we were stopped by Muhammad, a mad, jolly policeman smartly
dressed in an old Sam Browne belt, complete with revolver, lanyard and
swagger stick. His hat and cane were covered in reflective tape. He shone
like a beacon in the village lights.
“Hello”
“Hello”
“Your lights please” I turned them on.
“Where are you going?”
“Harar”
“Harar is 115 kilometres from here”
“Yes we know thank you.”
‘Verri good!” he chanted, stuck his swagger stick under his arm and saluted
us three times as though we were visiting generals. We drove on in
bewilderment. At 2230 we pulled into Harar, ate some tinned food and dropped
into bed.
The Americans have a word for spirit. They call it “dynamic”. If there was
ever a word to describe Harar’s spirit , it would have to be an “interesting
dynamic”. It has the ancient walls, the old town and the Muslim markets. Yet
at ten in the morning our hotel lobby was packed with men drinking beer.
We left the beery hotel and ambled off into the town. We stopped for lunch
just inside the old city walls. The restaurant was open for business as
usual in the middle of Ramazan (Ramadan for the arabists amongst you). Had
this not been surprising enough, the lounge was full of drunks. “they must
be Christians.“ I thought. But one approached me, welcomed me to Harar, and
tried to give us directions. I asked him to direct us, and he replied. “Ahh
no, I am Muslim, and I am drunk, this is a problem.”
After he retired to the bar we ate on the terrace, in silence. The beer
re-supply truck arrived. The restaurant proprietor came running out and
danced a jig on the street. “Beer, beer, beer is here again” he chanted in
English as the stevedores slid crate after crate across his floor. I did not
know what to make of this. Beer was an integral part of Harar life.
Some time later I took a photograph of a mosque. Some shenzy looking youths
told me not to.
“It’s ok, I am a Muslim” I replied with a smile.
“You are not a Muslim” sneered one. I strode over to him, pushed my fingers
into his neck, and pinned him to the mosque door. My thumb dug deep into his
neck and I felt him gasp for breath.
“Esheduanallhillaha illallah, Esheduana Muhamada rasuluallah” I chanted
quietly. He looked at me with bewilderment, the youth himself did not
understand the basic tenet of Islam. I throttled him some more, while his
friends tried to intercede. When suddenly it hit me, holding a wideboy
slimeball against the mosque door with the intention of thumping him was
really most un-muslim. Rather sheepishly I let him go and said,
“Alhamdullillah, I’m a muslim, no problem.” As I walked off, I looked at
Cisca to see if she was horrified and about to run back to the Hotel in fear
of her life.
“Err sorry” I muttered.
“Don’t be sorry, I don’t mind”
“Huuuuuuuuh?”
“Well he stepped on your heart, and you didn’t hit him, so that makes you
better than him”
“Hmmm” I thought “I wouldn’t put it quite like that. He pissed me off, so I
nearly stepped on his head.” But I kept that comment to myself.
In total contrast to this deeper inside the town, a man climbed onto the
roof of a small house and chanted the Azaan, the call to prayer. People then
streamed into his “house” that was a small mosque. Harar did have some
devout honest people of all religions. Indeed the tailor who made my
trousers, steadfastly refused to over charge me, spoke to me in Arabic, we
chatted for as many minutes as my limited words would allow. He bade me
farewell with a huge double handed handshake and a smile.
The ugliest side of Harar could be found in the commercial markets. Men lay
on the ground chewing chat, the highly narcotic drug leaf. These filth
covered specimens lolled wide eyed as they foamed at the mouth. I had heard
of chat being a problem in Mogadishu, but to see it so prevalent first hand
here in prosperous eastern Ethiopia was a surprise. Even more surprising
were the scores of boxes of US, Italian and even Turkish food aid. “NOT FOR
SALE OR EXCHANGE” was stamped on the side of the boxes. These crates had
never reached their destination, and yet here children and adults were
selling them with aplomb. The Turkish tins of mutton had $100 pictures with
lines through them. It could not be clearer that these items were not for
sale in any language. When questioned, the vendors immediately forgot their
English.
The dates on the tins was 2000 and 2001. I smiled and wondered which bufoon
of a pen pusher was sending food to Ethiopia, when the famine ended 15 years
ago. I had seen these tins for sale all over Ethiopia, but Harar was the
first place where I had seen the wholesale of such items. This was theft
on a grand scale.
Emperor Menelik built a cathedral in the centre of Harar’s old square. It
was a symbolic gesture. “This town may have been Muslim, but I will remind
you of your defeat”, it seemed to say. I spent my last day strolling
around the Cathedral and searching for Arthur Rimbaud’s house. I’m not
sure if I found the exact one, for he lived in four different abodes when he
was a resident of this city. The famous
poet/deserter/traveller/Frenchman/rake must have had the ancient Harari
estate agents gleefully rubbing their hands.
After a few days our aimless wanderings ceased, and it was time to move on.
I was not sorry to see the back of Harar, I had enjoyed my time there , but
fascinating though she was, there was something sinister about the place.
Harar was neither African, nor Arab, neither Muslim, nor Christian, not
quite polite, but not very rude. Rimbaud must have loved it!
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