Today is thanksgiving and...
I am thankful to be alive. Not the wind-in-my-hair, fortunate-to-be-on-this-planet kind of alive. But in a very literal sense: I’m happy to be alive because today Tom and I climbed to the top of the far-reaching Abuna Yamata Guh - a semi-monolithic church in the Tigray region of Ethiopia. The climb required us to scale a sheer cliff face using shallow hand and foot holes (albeit with a “safety” rope tied around our waists), navigate around undulating ridges, and walk across a narrow ledge with a 200 meter drop-off in order to reach the church entrance. Most of the rock hewn churches around Gheralta require thighs and nerves of steel to reach, as they are chiseled high into the mountainsides, floating far above the towns below. The churches, relics of an ancient past, are impressively still active and have weekly congregations. While the tourist circuit is comprised nearly exclusively of “fit” foreigners, devoted locals of non-discriminating size, age and agility scale the rocks and shimmy across the cliff’s ledges regularly. Mother’s carry newborn babies to the churches to be baptized. Men carry the deceased to the churches to be buried.
We couldn’t get a straight answer from our guide as to why the churches were built in such vertiginous positions, but he suspects it was to allow the priests to be either: closer to God, protected from enemies, or impervious to pedestrian distraction. I suspected it was the priests’ cruel joke to their congregation: you only attempt the climb if you have faith (or you’re a tourist following guidebook recommendations). Regardless of why, the churches’ inaccessibility only adds to their majestic allure.
I am thankful to be alive. Not the wind-in-my-hair, fortunate-to-be-on-this-planet kind of alive. But in a very literal sense: I’m happy to be alive because today Tom and I climbed to the top of the far-reaching Abuna Yamata Guh - a semi-monolithic church in the Tigray region of Ethiopia. The climb required us to scale a sheer cliff face using shallow hand and foot holes (albeit with a “safety” rope tied around our waists), navigate around undulating ridges, and walk across a narrow ledge with a 200 meter drop-off in order to reach the church entrance. Most of the rock hewn churches around Gheralta require thighs and nerves of steel to reach, as they are chiseled high into the mountainsides, floating far above the towns below. The churches, relics of an ancient past, are impressively still active and have weekly congregations. While the tourist circuit is comprised nearly exclusively of “fit” foreigners, devoted locals of non-discriminating size, age and agility scale the rocks and shimmy across the cliff’s ledges regularly. Mother’s carry newborn babies to the churches to be baptized. Men carry the deceased to the churches to be buried.
We couldn’t get a straight answer from our guide as to why the churches were built in such vertiginous positions, but he suspects it was to allow the priests to be either: closer to God, protected from enemies, or impervious to pedestrian distraction. I suspected it was the priests’ cruel joke to their congregation: you only attempt the climb if you have faith (or you’re a tourist following guidebook recommendations). Regardless of why, the churches’ inaccessibility only adds to their majestic allure.
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I am thankful for facts. The first thing I learned while visiting the Tigrayan churches was that hard and fast facts are hard to come by. The second thing I learned was that I love hard and fast facts. When were the churches built? Sometime between the 4th - 12th centuries AD. Are the paintings in Abuna Gebre Mikael (with their bright blues and yellows) original? Yes, mostly, maybe. Who built the churches? Maybe saints, maybe the churches’ namesakes, maybe mortals by day and angels by night? After our first day of church hikes, we learned first that it is mandatory to have a guide to hike to the churches, and further, it is also mandatory (based on Gheralta tourist association rules) to retain the same guide for all your hikes. We asked our guide why and he told it’s so you don't receive contradictory facts from day to day about the origination, preservation and purpose of the churches.
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I am thankful for luxury. Our first night in Gheralta we stayed at Gheralta Lodge - an Italian-built hotel designed in traditional tukul fashion. The hotel had a shower with hot water, two towels (a rarity these days), a decadent three-course pasta lunch, a bar that included exotic elixirs like campari, and sheets that didn’t require me to search for bugs between the layers before tucking in. Unfortunately, as is the complication with spontaneity, we hadn’t booked in advance so while we were able to stay at Gheralta Lodge on our first night, we had to find different accommodations for our second. But the small moment of luxury was great while it lasted.
I am thankful for spontaneity. From atop Abuna Yemata Guh we could look across to a nearby plateau and see the church of Maryam Korkor. I asked our guide if anyone ever camped at the churches and he said, “yes it’s possible” which was his fixed reply to most of our questions. This seemed like an easy solve to the conundrum of not having a hotel for our second night in Gheralta. We set off around 4pm with our guide, armed with a tent and two sleeping bags and a strenuous uphill hour later, as the sun was setting, we were preparing to sleep with the monk who lives perched high atop the mountain ridge at Maryam Korkor. Unlike the other churches whose priests rotate annually, this is the monk’s permanent home and has been for 46 years - he’s now in his 70s and very infrequently descends to the town below. His interactions are filtered only to those who come to his church to worship and the three others who live at Maryam Korkor: a nun, a rotating guard and a small boy, 13 years old, who is the monk’s apprentice. The boy moved to Maryam Korkor when he was 7 years old, called by God, to take a position of holiness in the church. After the sun set, we watched the young boy and the guard, wrapped in blankets, sit on the edge of the cliff, listen to Tigrayan music and watch the lights flicker from the small town below. We joined them for a bit until both Tom and I could feel the vertigo set in amidst the darkness and hurried back to the safety of our tent.
I am thankful for technology. I love thanksgiving and felt far away from home this weekend. I am thankful for adventure, new experiences and traveling with Tom. But I am also thankful for family and friends, creature comforts, and my mini universe in the US. Thanks to technology (and shockingly spotless connectivity across all of Ethiopia), I felt connected. I may be a world away, but still I know who’s going to Pub and Kitchen and who isn’t the Friday after thanksgiving. I know that little Arthur and his mama are finally feeling better. I know that Brooke cooked duck confit and my dad had enough vegan options to satisfy his thanksgiving appetit. I know that the Sapers played piano together and sang. I think I know every time and new location of Niffy’s pumping schedule. And most of all, I know that Andrea and Greg got engaged. The FaceTime connection was poor, my phone screen was filled with pixelated people and the audio was scratchy gibberish, but I could feel the celebratory spirit of the proposal and for a brief moment I was transported to the Korb’s kitchen table, sitting among riends, stuffing my face with a bagel.
