Glimpses of Timkat
I awaken with the
sun and sit up in bed to read my Bible and I cannot concentrate these
six months later. The little wavy lines of memory keep appearing in my
vision, of other mornings when I would awake at first hint of light,
dress for the day, take my Bible and notebook, and wrapped in my prayer
shawl, slip through the hotel to the patio overlooking Axum’s stelae
field and watch the town wake up in slow motion.
Centuries melded
into the present as barefoot little boys ambled to school or drove a few
goats to pasture. Little girls with plastic jugs (an intrusion of
technology) too big for their small frames started their weary,
continuous treks for the ever precious and dwindling water. A few men,
camels laden with another precious and dwindling commodity, wood, or
other wares made their way to market, while their less prosperous
neighbors would use a donkey or their own backs. Women in white prayer
shawls slipped in and out of churches. The few western clothes with
color only made the traditional white more prominent.
All of this
movement is measured in half-time. It leaves one with time to ponder
the present scene as well as life itself. The occasional child or
animal that breaks the pace of centuries is only cause for smiling and
the smile breaks as slowly as the unfolding scene. I have a photograph,
but it only serves to enlighten someone else, as this scene is
permanently etched in my being.
Soon a fellow
traveler appears and that scene is on hold until the next morning of the
rest of my life. We sit together and share our impressions of the scene
before us with words that are too feeble to communicate, yet each of
understands our struggle and forgives. We then join the others at
breakfast. Meals are for the most part a desperate attempt by the
Ethiopians to serve western style meals for the demanding, or like
me—the wimpy western tastes. I berate myself with each mean for
ordering western foods instead of the traditional enjera and wat. Soon
it will be time to meet Eyob (the Biblical Job in English). Eyob is my
sad-eyed teenage boy who quietly insinuated himself as my guide. I
think I chose Eyob because he was so sad, but so gentle. Ethiopia is
sad and gentle. Ethiopia is joyous and violent. I don’t know why I
chose Eyob or if I really did—there were so many boys who desperately
needed the job and the issue had to be settled quickly. I didn’t know
what to expect from a guide, so I was a cautious. He assumed polite
control. I acquiesced cautiously. Fear wastes precious energy.
I am ready for my
day dressed in a supped up field jacket, safari hat, long travel skirt
and shirt and prayer shawl, and Eyob doesn’t even smile as I approach
him down the road where he waits for me at the edge of the hotel
property. There a grizzled ole man with a cane-like stick beats the
young boys back from a rigid line in his eyes, that constitutes hotel
property. This is humiliating for the boys and their frustration
shows.
Eyob insists on
carrying my camera and holding onto my elbow for my safety. I was not
sure I trusted Eyob with my camera for other voices were proclaiming
“thievery.” I am glad I was able to quiet those voices. Eyob proved
more than trustworthy and I came to rely on him. He honored me with an
invitation to his home for the feast that signaled the end of Timkat.
That experience evokes such a longing to relive it and to embrace Eyob.
His steady hand on my elbow guided me around potholes and rocks, which
left me free to click away on my old fashioned camera.
The remainder of
this day was a cacophony of foreign sights and sounds that were
completely exhilarating. The beautiful dark faces, brilliant white
teeth and garments, Ethiopian skies, joyful shouts and laughter, dancing
and drums and the solemn parade of priests and monks, dressed in royal
robes and umbrellas of magnificent colors with silver and gold
embroidery, from St. Mary’s of Zion to Sheba’s pool all contrived to
pull me into the marrow of some primal calling which others mistake for
reincarnation. It was simply being in a place of belonging by calling—I
was experiencing what was placed in my heart by God that had never
before been quickened. I was swept along in the surge of this joyous
Holy Day, swirled between men in a circling dance and women chanting,
then eddied to the quieter edges, and back again into the rapids. My
own joy escalated. Eyob was ever at my side, my protector from
imaginary danger. The infectious joy sucked me into the vortex of the
celebration and the culture and I drowned in Ethiopia and we became one,
this Ethiopian sea and me.
Six months later,
and I cannot find my way back to the surface, nor do I desire it. This
Ethiopian sea will not relinquish me, and I praise God.
On Ethiopia
Lillian Johnson
June 29, 2006
