Bonga.
At 2000 meters altitude, the capital of Kafa is a maze of dirt
tracks, which cross an undefinable set of brick, mud and metal
buildings, all interspersed by banana and enset plantations. You
breathe the smell of rancid butter, roasted coffee, smoke and spices.
A few horthodox churches, three restaurants, two hotels (one serves
also as a brothel), a hospital and a weekly market: here live about
forty thousand people and at least as many heads of cattle, in
addition to dozens of black kites, ravens, vultures and hadada ibises
that take advantage of the situation. All around, at few kilometers
of distance, lush and unwelcoming, the Forest.
To
get there it takes a whole day by jeep from Addis Ababa. The road
follows the ancient landscape of the Rift Valley and crosses
(literally) dozens of villages, where the driver must carefully dodge
chickens, cows and kids. You leave the asphalt to Jimma, a half of
the trip; then it's all dust and sand until here. It seems that this
will no longer be a problem: Chinese and Korean investment will bring
soon the asphalt (and traffic) also to this final stretch.
From
Bonga start all expeditions to the Kafa Region and, therefore, also
my photographic adventures. Following a radial gradient, to get to
the wildest areas, one need to overcome the patches where the axe,
fire and livestock have made the forest back off.
At
the end of January 2012, having covered more or less all photo
objects that my assignment required, I focused on the search for the
alleged forest lions. Fresh information about livestock attacks that
occurred near Adjo
(a name that says it all...), a village situated over sixty
kilometres from Bonga at the southeastern border of Kafa.
After
nearly four hours of Land Cruiser and dirt roads, we arrived at this
little group of houses scattered around a colourful circular
building, halfway between a church and a tucul
hut. Muluken, my young interpreter, told me that it was the palace of
Habedagoda, local noble man and religious leader. The only truly
recognized authority in that area, to whom we were supposed to ask
informations and, more importantly, permissions to move in that
territory. I, a farangi
("foreigner"), was announced and was asked to wait. Dozens
of flies and at least as many pairs of staring human eyes were
concentrated on me: I was definitely the event of the year for the
villagers. I pretended to ignore that and looked up to the sky.
Several African griffon vultures were soaring above us. After half an
hour, I did enter the building round. Inside, apart from the darkness
and a very strong odor, I saw that the walls were covered with old
photos, fake flowers and portraits of Jesus.
Some
men stood against the wall around an imposing figure sitting at a
small table. White Nike sneakers, a red-green-and-yellow vest, a
cream-coloured cowboy with "made in China" written in gold
caracters on it; all under a black and gold cloak: Habedagoda leader
shook his giraffe's tail fly swatter. An old spear was also standing
against the wall. I was appalled and felt truly privileged to be
there: a little like the poor brother of Indiana Jones or a wanna-be
Claude Levy-Strauss of the third Millennium!
I
was invited to sit down (at a distance from leader) and I was offered
coffee. After a few moments of embarrassment, Habedagoda began to ask
me questions in dialect kafinho:
he asked me about everything, including my monthly salary and the eye
color of my girlfriend, and the interpreter had to translate our
entire conversation. We explained to the chief our mission and he
confirmed that He
was nearby and had killed several cows. He spoke with great respect
and with a bit of awe. (Do note, that nobody in Ethiopia would ever
dare to utter the word "lion". It would be a blasphemy, as
this is a legendary and highly respected animal: it is ambassa,
"king", and appointing him would be enough to draw his
rage.)
Then,
Habedagoda generously offered us hospitality and help, a high quarter
of cow (which I politely declined) and two village hunters as guides.
This provided that, every night, we would report a detailed account
of our excursions. I understood he liked me and even dared to take
some shots with my camera. That morning, nobody mentioned if what we
were doing was dangerous or not.
And
so began our search for the lions, carried out in a very unorthodox
way. Instead of scanning the landscape from the comfortable seats of
a Land Rover driven along dusty roads, in fact, we went backpacking,
beating the steep slopes of the area. For five days, we roamed the
silent forests, crossed turbulent and foaming streams, by walking (me
crawling) on super slippery tree trunks put crosswise, and sweated
the proverbial seven shirts.
And,
again, spectacular rocky gorges and thick prairies of yellow grass
that arrived to the chin (perfect for a lurking lion, for instance):
my guides kept saying "we are very close", "here they
have been seen a week ago" and "look here, the grass was
crushed by one of them asleep." Instead of a safari in Africa,
to me it looked only like the umpteenth (and useless) hike in the
footsteps of the bear in the Abruzzi mountains and smelled stench of
failure. Luckily, the monotony was sometimes interrupted by cries of
a family of blue monkeys, the fleeting vision of a turaco or the
stabbing bites of giant ants.
Every
night, as we returned exhausted to the village, in addition to
fatigue I was also responsible for entertaining the chief, reporting
faithfully all the events of the day and waiting for its approval and
that of our faithful "audience". When, late in the hour, I
would eventually walk into my tent, I was happy because I could
finally be all alone … (to
be continued)
