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It was nine o'clock, Tuesday, October 2, 2007. My
friend as usual arrived right on time at Shiro Meda
where we were to meet and walk all the way to Entoto
Mountain where one of the oldest churches in Addis
is located. The trek was our annual spiritual
celebration marking St. Mary's Day. We made the
journey for umpteenth times over the years.
As we got older and older, we had to sweat to
negotiate the winding steep slope carrying our
loaded anatomy. We usually did it at the rate of
three kilometres per hour, which was not bad for old
codgers like the two of us.
Looking uphill, I could see the whole length of the
winding road congested with neatly dressed people of
all walks of life. There were thousands of
youngsters walking in unison. Girls were, on the
whole, clad in beautiful national dresses that
demurely concealed their physique. Boys wore
tee-shirts and imported jackets and jeans.
There were groups of youngsters chanting ecclesial
songs, often pausing to take a breath of relief at
intervals while sustaining the invigorating
spiritual hymns. The soloist soared ahead of others,
leading the lyrics as if to give them the clue as to
the next lines. The congregation did the rest.
Looking at the number of the worshiping youth
flocking uphill, I was carried away by the thought
that the whole pilgrimage up the mountain was just a
new race with a new pace, marching to rupture new
changes at the threshold of the Ethiopian
Millennium, which will take off as of September next
year. There were also quite a few couples with their
arms around each other, walking shoulder-to-shoulder
and sometimes cheek-to-cheek or even lips to lips,
particularly on our way back. At some spots we could
see that the congested trees provided safe havens
for relieving one's bowels, if not for relieving
some heat of romance.
While walking around curves and looking down at the
horizon lying before me, there were moments that
tempted me to stop walking and pause to enjoy the
spectacular beauty of the scenic landscape of the
capital city Addis Abeba down below amidst the sea
of corrugated iron roofs of all size and colour. I
must say that the other side of Entoto, particularly
when observed from the hilltop of the Church of the
Archangel St. Raguel, is more panoramic and
awe-inspiring.
This bit of information, unfortunately, is rarely
mentioned in the otherwise eloquent tourist guide
publications. I hope the gurus in the field will see
to it that there is a lot to see far and beyond the
other side of Entoto.
Meanwhile, we followed the young pilgrims who seem
to aspire and have visions for their country beyond
and above Entoto. A large number of youngsters
forced their way downhill singing, or rather roaring
loudly I should say, filtering into the pack I was
talking about. All seemed to have found a faint
trace of a rugby game in the process by the looks of
events and the smiling faces.
What surprised me most was the conspicuous absence
of the destitute and paupers who pester people,
showing their disfigured bodies or disabled limbs.
Left and right along the winding road, and
particularly very close to the Church, there were
more traders of candles and embroidered umbrellas
than there were beggars who usually presume that
their existence is less for their own benefit and
more for the benefit of the pious who aspire to do
good in order to get a pass to Heaven.
Quite noticeably, however, there were priests and
deacon-like youngsters spreading sheets where alms
of coins and notes were thrown. They sang songs in
unison and tried to impress passers-by. One such
group was calling St. Michael quite in spite of the
fact, for all I know and care, that it was St.
Mary's Day.
Down below on the open stretch of land intensive
terracing work has taken place. The indigenous
juniper tree is regenerating and the once degraded
soil is vividly recuperating. When I saw that man
can remedy the folly of his deeds if he desires,
tears of ecstasy filled my eyes.
As we approached the Church a sudden drizzle began
to fall, forcing us to take refuge under the shade
of our umbrellas. The shower later grew in
intensity, rendering the umbrellas useless. We had
to move upstairs to the veranda where I felt as if I
had come close enough to the Madonna to say my
heart-rending prayers of thanks for what the Mother
and Child have done for me so far.
Coming closer to the forum, incidentally, had its
drawbacks though. The blaring sound emanating from
the loudspeaker was deafening. At times the deacon
using the gadget forgot to mind his microphone and
made personal comments too close to the microphone,
oblivious of what was to on the other side of the PA
system. As soon as the session was over, a series of
announcements and commercials were blared. Requests
for retrieving lost cell phones, and in one case a
charger, were announced time and again in the name
of the Church.
A
young man tried to profit at the expense of picking
my friend's pocket, but was too slow in his
technique. My friend caught him red-handed, shocking
him so much his eyes nearly popped out from their
sockets. The game was over for us while the security
men in plain clothes were dealing with him, starting
by asking for his ID card.
When the rain subsided into a thin shower, we
started moving around in search of a pass-way.
People told us that there was a path to get us out
of the Church. Unfortunately, or fortunately as the
case may be taken, the path led us to a house in the
backyard where food and drinks were handed out
gratis. Realising what was going on, my friend
jerked back as if there was an electric wave going
through his body. We had to go elsewhere to quench
our thirst. And quench it we did. A litre of tela
was selling for two Birr each with free
bread-like stuff. Our due gratitude goes to the
owners.
We walked all the way to the check-point at the
Godjam Road through the drizzle. It was a four-kilometre
walk, according to some informers. But it was
nothing to bother on St. Mary's Day.
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