The Chains of Heaven: An Ethiopian Romance
by Philip Marsden
HarperCollins
Philip Marsden first went to Ethiopia more than two decades ago. It "shocked me, revolted me, awed and terrified me", he writes. It also made him a traveller. Ever since, he has found himself "drawn to remote and restive minorities, to the passionate fringes of religious belief. I am convinced now that if I had not chosen Ethiopia ... I would not have lived the life that I have, would not have travelled quite so obsessively [to Armenia, Lebanon, Cyprus, Belorussia], would never have begun to write." But, having begun, he has woven himself into a strain of bookish, very English wandering and has been described as an heir to Patrick Leigh Fermor and been bracketed with Bruce Chatwin.
The standard description of Ethiopia is "the rooftop of Africa", and the highlands really are high - sometimes 4,500 metres above sea level - but they are also runnelled with plunging gorges. The result is ambas, unassailable, flat-topped mountain fastnesses that used to be handy pens for regicidal princes, and are still dotted with Orthodox Christian monasteries. "This rocky region helps to solve the riddle at the heart of Ethiopia's history: how has it sustained its sovereignty? Why did it not, like its neighbours, become Muslim? Why was it the only African country to resist the European colonial adventure? The glib answer is mountains - and perhaps it really is as simple as that. Landscape has translated its spirit to produce a deeply religious and bellicose people." Much of Marsden's considerable lyrical firepower is reserved for these mountains, and the birds that fly through them, such as the hooded vulture he sees "gliding along ... the sandstone a blur behind it. Then it was clear of the mountain and the sun was bright on its underwing and it was soaring into a milky sky."
But he has to climb. Debre Damo is the most famous monastery that must be approached in this manner, but he also visits Abba Salama, which requires the supplicant to walk along a narrow ledge halfway up a cliff, climb a ladder placed in a rock chimney, and then, over a drop of hundreds of feet, forgo all support in order to reach a chain, with which to drag himself over an overhanging lip of rock. "Reaching these places," Marsden observes breathlessly,"is a rite in itself." It is an interesting observation - not because it is necessarily insightful about approaches to remote monasteries, but because it goes a little way to unlocking this book, with its uneasy clash between tone and content, personal quest and historical celebration.
The latter is well done. He has been thinking about the country off and on for 20 years (he has even written a book about it before), and it shows. He has ferreted through archives, done time in the Institute of Ethiopian Studies, studied Amharic; he is particularly good, and particularly interested in, Ethiopia as a place in the western imagination. So, using the landscape and people he encounters as triggers, he revisits the medieval legend of Prester John, king of a glorious Christian kingdom "beyond the Islamic cordon"; Thomas Burnet's 17th-century claim that, according to an "Aethiopian philosopher" and books in a grand Abyssinian library, the earth's surface was originally smooth; Samuel Purchas's placing of this library on Mount Amara (actually Amba Gishen). Coleridge fell into an opium dream with Purchas's book open on his lap - and an Abyssinian maid, and Mount Amara (as it is in the original MSS), stole into "Kubla Khan". And so on. If the mountains meant that the country was militarily unassailable, they also meant dreams could be projected upon them without much fear of contradiction. The peaks and valleys of northern Ethiopia really were - for centuries in the western historical imagination, and decades in Marsden's own - mountains of the mind.
Which is perhaps why the people he meets are not as vivid as the places or the history. There are many of them, sketched quickly and economically, but they remain oddly distant. The photographs that stud the book begin to seem increasingly appropriate: they often look obliquely past shadowed, indistinct faces to landscape. Late in his travels, observing yet another complex of miraculous chambers cut into a mountainside, Marsden says: "Not for the first time, I was overcome with awe at the thought of these places and what it took to create them - not so much the labour or the expertise or even the thorny problems of working with reverse space - but the why?" It's a question that could just as well be applied to his book, because apart from a section at the beginning in which he describes first falling in love with the country, and a section at the end, where he looks back on what that love has meant, he seems as distant as they are. His tone is often jocular, staccato, with a fondness for the absurd - and yet I don't think he intends to mock. He has a natural and underlying seriousness; this journey means much to him. On his first visit, in the early 80s, "Teklu [a tour guide] had told me about Debra Damo ... 'You have to climb up to it on a rope - it is like an island in the sky!' That image had grown with the passing years into something impossible and otherworldly. Now I was here, I found the image's work was done, and it too had vanished."
Resting at a hotel after his long walk, Marsden suddenly feels "a sense of dislocation so intense that before long I couldn't remember how I had got here, or where I was". The Chains of Heaven thus becomes a kind of parable, about sustaining fictions and the risks of looking at them too closely. Like other parables, it also becomes part of worship, a rite in itself.