Finding our way out of Debark, our favorite (not) little town near the Simien Mountains, was an adventure in and of itself. The lodging suggested by our trusty (not) Lonely Planet was planning to do some early morning (read: 5am) painting, so we were told that transportation would be arranged to take us to the “new” hotel for a nice breakfast before we caught our bus. Fast forward to the morning, we found ourselves sitting on plastic chairs set up outside at a gas station as every tuk-tuk in town was in line to fill up, having walked halfway across town in the early-morning chill. The coffee never came, though thankfully our breakfast did. Others got the short end of the stick as they sat down 20 minutes later and proceeded to wait for 45 minutes while the cooks didn’t realize they needed to eat as well. Nothing like the sweet smell of gasoline and exhaust with breakfast. At least it kept us warm.
We caught our public bus up to Aksum, or at least most of the way there, from the somewhat mellow-by-Ethiopian-standards bus station. This time, I knew to load the bags ourselves, as anyone and their brother will pretend to be a bus worker, then demand money once your bag is safely on top. The 10-hour bus ride was absolutely beautiful, with much of the same scenery we saw during our trek in the Simien Mountains turning to desert formations, not unlike my home away from home for the past couple years, St. George, Utah. The mostly uneventful ride was your typical fare: crammed seating, a door that required prying open with a screwdriver, winding and precarious cliffside roads, multiple police stops, priests begging for our money, and tiny villages with adorable children that have unfortunately learned 3 English words: Hello, Money, and Pen. It struck me as odd that the brand-new roads built by the Chinese seemed to have very little traffic on them throughout the 10-hour journey. I was also suspicious that the roads would face the same fate as the national park, as it was clear very little maintenance was being done, or planned to be done.
Arriving in Aksum, we were pleasantly surprised by the first town on our trip that exuded a slight bit of charm, with its cobblestone streets and more well-kept archaeological sites. We explored the millennia old stelae scattered through town, and walked outside the church that supposedly holds the original Ark of the Covenant. Many of Ethiopia’s official storylines and archeological history seem suspect at best, but who am I to argue.
Having struggled enough with arranging transportation and sightseeing on our own, we opted for a one-day tour that would take us on a little adventure pilgrimage. Throughout the Tigray region of Ethiopia, you can find hundreds of Christian churches and monasteries built into and on top of the large rock outcroppings that make up the landscape. Some are fairly easy to reach, others require some rock climbing and nerves. Our tour was meant to take us to 3 of the most extreme, with one being carved into the most precarious of rock faces, and the other two perched atop a mountain with sweeping views across the land.
Naturally, the second we let our guard down, assuming an organized tour would take the stress away from our sightseeing, Ethiopia sensed weakness and capitalized.
After making our first stop at the ancient site of Yeha, which predated Christianity in the region, then stopping for lunch (and attempting to be charged double), we made our way to the first hike at nearly 2pm. For a tour that promised we’d visit 3 churches and be back by 7pm, I wasn’t seeing a way for us to complete the itinerary and also make the 3-hour drive back, but no mind. We made our way towards Abuna Yemata Guh up the side of the cliff, barefoot rock climbing (with the help of rope and some scouts) using the grips that had been dugout into the sandstone by centuries of church-goers making their way up to the top. After some more scrambling, we arrived at the final passage, a narrow strip of flat rock hugging the cliff on one side, with a 200-meter drop on the other. We made the precarious passage, arriving at the small wooden door of a church completely carved into the rock. Inside, centuries old paintings adorned the walls and ceilings. Being used to restored and well-kept paintings in European churches, it was somewhat novel and refreshing to see such old paintings that were in no way restored or really well-kept, they simply existed, just as they have for hundreds of years, atop this outcropping of rock that not only is impossible to see from afar, but also quite the feat to reach, involving a hike, a climb, and nerves of steel. What’s your excuse for not making it to church on Sunday??
After politely denying the priest’s demand for more money than we gave him, we made our way down the cliffside and onto the next hike…or so we thought. The driver informed us that we’d be going back now, the tour was over. Seeing as how the itinerary had two churches left to see on it, the tour was most definitely not over, and our group saw to it that we’d see these churches we paid to see. How we finally came to an agreement in that van is a story best told over a beer or two, but suffice to say, we made it to the remaining churches, attempted tour scam be damned. Along the way, up the steep mountain, we were treated to the most immaculate sunset over a Monument Valley-like scene. Oranges and reds and yellows reflected off the distant rainstorms as the silhouettes of desert formations stood majestically in every direction. We made it to the top at dusk, and with a little convincing, the priest opened the doors to the two churches perched atop the plateau. One was quite small, with open graves surrounding its tiny entrance door. The other, Maryam Korkor, was a true work of art. The church was quite large inside, though you’d never know seeing just the façade on the rock face. Giant pillars, all painted centuries ago, led to dust chandeliers that provided no light. It was a combination of holy and creepy as more open tombs lined the nave of the church. How this church came to be, so many hundreds of years ago, and how I came to be in it, with the supervision of a young guide and a priest, was perplexing to me as I stepped outside, back onto the plateau of a mountain that took an hour to hike up, surrounded by nothing but open desert and rock formations that no doubt contained more churches than I could count.
I was on cloud nine as we made our way down the mountain in the pitch dark, finding our way back to the car just in time before the torrential rains began to flood the roads and fog the windows as we braved the 3-hour journey home, ETA 11pm. While it was debatable whether we’d make it back safely through the storm, one thing was for sure:
Those churches would persevere.