THE PRODIGAL PASSENGER I
SLEPT badly in the small town in the Ethiopian Highlands, where rain is coursing through the rutted streets. Now I have a 14-hour rickety bus trip to Lalibela but some wonderful churches, cut out of rock in the 13th century with help from the angels, are waiting for me there. It is 5am.
A very unwashed, bearded holy man with a wild look in his eyes moves down the bus aisle and, with an excessive gesture, shoves a large, wooden cross under each passenger’s nose. He wants us to plant a kiss on the feet of Jesus and give him some money.
We climb into the mountains and the air becomes cooler. The bus has a puncture and the passengers climb down. Some children, looking cold and famished, arrive to watch. I look around me but I can’t see a house for miles.
The mid-morning stop in a small town is welcome. I wander away to take a few photos. I stop to have a mixed fruit juice, which is a fusion of a drink and a softening ice-cream. Afterwards I sip one of those wonderfully sweet, savoury Ethiopian coffees and watch goats strolling. Sauntering back to the bus, I am surprised because there is no bus! OK, so I’ve made a mistake. I haven’t understood what the driver said. I walk the small town twice. No sign of the bus or any of my co-passengers, whose faces I am valiantly trying to recall. With only a few words of Amharic, I am unable to ask for information.
I try to analyse the situation. The bus station, I think. It must have gone to the station. It is, of course, logical. A 15-minute walk but no bus there: what can I do? I scour the town once more and then conclude that they’ve left without me and I must hitch a ride. I walk to the outskirts of town with little optimism: eight hours to go and on mountain roads. I have only the clothes on my back but I do have my passport and some money.
The passing traffic is mainly donkeys, oxen, cows, camels and curious locals on bikes. Some of the cows brush against me as if I don’t exist. In my frustration, I have the impulse to swing a kick at their rears but I am not sure of the locals’ relationship to their bovine friends. Are they sacred, as in India? I don’t know.
People stare at the white man making weird signs with his thumb to passing traffic. There are no cars but a few four-wheel-drive vehicles pass. They signal they are turning left or right down the road. An hour passes. Part of travel, I tell myself: the unexpected. I’m wondering if I will see my bag again. Will someone walk away with it? Will some kind Ethiopian-Orthodox soul hand it in to the police or the bus station in Lalibela?
Suddenly, a young boy cries, “Bus Lalibela.” Totally surprised, I swing around and see it coming around a corner from town. I blink and look again before I dare to believe. Immediately I begin to feel guilty and think, “They have been searching for me.” I practise saying the word sorry in Amharic. I step into the bus with the word on the tip of my tongue. But, as I open my mouth, I see, down the full length of the bus, that people are smiling and then a big round of clapping breaks out. I close my mouth. Everyone is relieved.
I take my seat; I feel great. The prodigal who had been lost has been found. — © Donal Conlon
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