Another Voice
On the camel trail in Ethiopia: a story, a tragedy and a blessing
But Agula had an adventure of its own to recount, a sad one. Even we noticed that something was untoward. When the camel-drivers banged at the tin gates of the village’s only salt merchant, only a small boy came out to open up, and then a woman: his mother. She was a slim, blue-robed woman in a white veil, but her face was uncovered. I guessed she might be in her late thirties. She had a certain command and a dignity, but she radiated anxiety and sadness. She spoke to us and to the camel-drivers who, as each camel obediently knelt, began to unload their beasts. It was odd that in so traditional and male-dominated a community there should be no husband taking the lead. Especially in matters of commerce, for these slabs would have to be cut and shaped here into smaller ingots, bound with leaves, and sent on by truck to be sold to the big distributors of Addis Ababa.
So where was the father of the house? When the mistress of the house herself began inspecting each block of salt, keeping a tally of numbers and quality, Solomon ventured to ask; and she told him everything. Her husband had indeed been in charge. Now, and at a young age, he was dead.
It had happened not long ago. One of their small sons had run into the yard to tell his father that their cow had been hit by a truck on the road and killed. His father had at once hitched up a horse and cart to fetch the carcass. As he rode back with his grisly cargo there had been a shot — it seemed from the blue. He had fallen dead from his mount. The bullet had been one of those awful, totally random accidents: a stray shot from the rifle of a recruit to the Ethiopian army on a training exercise behind the hill. The army had admitted responsibility.
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