Nikolaev Nikolai Nikolaevich.

CHAPTER THREE

The road to Harar runs for the first twenty kilometers along the bed of the very river that I spoke about in the previous chapter. Its edges are quite steep, and God forbid a traveler should end up on it during the rain. We were fortunately protected from this danger, because the interval between two rains lasted about forty hours. And we weren’t the only ones who took advantage of the opportunity. Dozens of Abyssinians rode along the road, danakils passed, Galla women with saggy bare breasts carried bundles of firewood and grass to the city. Long chains of camels, tied together by their muzzles and tails, like funny rosaries strung on a thread, frightened our mules as they passed. We were expecting the arrival of the Harar governor, Dedjazmag Tafari, in Dire Dawa, and we often met groups of Europeans riding out to meet him on pretty, frisky horses. The road resembled paradise on good Russian popular prints: unnaturally green grass, overly spreading tree branches, large colorful birds and herds of goats along the mountain slopes. The air is soft, transparent and as if permeated with grains of gold. Strong and sweet scent of flowers. And only the black people are strangely disharmonious with everything around them, like sinners walking in paradise, according to some not yet created legend. We rode at a trot, and our ashkers ran ahead, still finding time to fool around and laugh with the passing women. The Abyssinians are famous for their fleetness of foot, and the general rule here is that over a long distance a pedestrian will always overtake a horseman. After two hours of travel, the ascent began: a narrow path, sometimes turning straight into a ditch, wound almost vertically up the mountain. Large stones blocked the road, and we had to dismount from the mules and walk. It was difficult, but good. You have to run up, almost without stopping, and balance on sharp stones: this way you get less tired. Your heart beats and takes your breath away: as if you are going on a love date. And on the other hand, you are rewarded with the unexpected, like a kiss, fresh smell of a mountain flower, and a suddenly opened view of a gently misty valley. And when, finally, half suffocated and exhausted, we climbed the last ridge, the unprecedented calm water sparkled into our eyes for so long, like a silver shield: mountain lake Adelie. I looked at my watch: the climb lasted an hour and a half. We were on the Kharar plateau. The terrain has changed dramatically. Instead of mimosas, there were green banana palms and hedges of milkweed; instead of wild grass there are carefully cultivated fields of durro. In a Galla village we bought injira (a type of thick pancake made of black dough that replaces bread in Abyssinia) and ate it, surrounded by curious children who rushed to run away at our slightest movement. From here there was a direct road to Harar, and in some places there were even bridges across deep cracks in the ground. We passed a second lake, Oromolo, twice the size of the first, shot a wading bird with two white growths on its head, spared a beautiful ibis, and five hours later found ourselves in front of Harar. Already from the mountain, Harar presented a majestic view with its red sandstone houses, tall European houses and sharp minarets of mosques. It is surrounded by a wall and the gate is not allowed after sunset. Inside, it’s completely Baghdad from the time of Harun al-Rashid. Narrow streets that go up and down in steps, heavy wooden doors, squares full of noisy people in white clothes, a court right there in the square - all this is full of the charm of old fairy tales. The petty frauds carried out in the city are also quite in the ancient spirit. A black boy of about ten years old, by all appearances a slave, was walking towards us along a crowded street with a gun on his shoulder, and an Abyssinian was watching him from around the corner. He didn't give us any directions, but since we were walking at a walk, it wasn't difficult for us to get around him. Now a handsome Hararit appeared, obviously in a hurry, since he was galloping. He shouted to the boy to step aside, but he did not listen and, hit by the mule, fell on his back like a wooden soldier, keeping the same calm seriousness on his face. The Abyssinian, watching from around the corner, rushed after the hararite and, like a cat, jumped up behind the saddle. "Ba Menelik, you killed a man." Hararit was already depressed, but at this time the black boy, who was obviously tired of lying, stood up and began to shake off the dust. The Abyssinian still managed to collect a thaler for the injury almost inflicted on his slave. We stayed in a Greek hotel, the only one in the city, where for a bad room and an even worse table they charged us a price worthy of the Parisian Grand Hotel. But still it was nice to drink a refreshing pinzermenta and play a game of greasy and gnawed chess. Harare, I met some acquaintances. The suspicious Maltese Karavana, a former bank official with whom I had a mortal quarrel in Addis Ababa, was the first to come to greet me. He forced someone else's bad mule on me, intending to get a commission. He offered to play poker, but I already knew his style of playing. Finally, with monkey antics, he advised me to send the magus a box of champagne, so that he could then run in front of him and boast of his management. When none of his efforts were crowned with success, he lost all interest in me. But I myself sent to look for another of my Addis Ababa acquaintances - a small, clean, elderly Copt, the director of a local school. Prone to philosophizing, like most of his compatriots, he sometimes expressed interesting thoughts, told funny stories, and his entire worldview gave the impression of good and stable balance. We played poker with him and visited his school, where little Abyssinians of the best names in the city practiced arithmetic in French. In Harare we even had a compatriot, Russian subject Armenian Artem Iokhanzhan, who lived in Paris, America, Egypt and lived in Abyssinia for about twenty years. On business cards he is listed as a doctor of medicine, doctor of sciences, merchant, commission agent and former member of the Court , but when asked how he got so many titles, the answer is a vague smile and complaints about bad times. Anyone who thinks that it is easy to buy mules in Abyssinia is very mistaken. There are no special merchants, nor are there any flea fairs. Ashkers go from house to house, inquiring whether there are any corrupt mules. The Abyssinians' eyes light up: maybe the white one doesn't know the price and can be deceived. A chain of mules stretches to the hotel, sometimes very good, but incredibly expensive. When this wave subsides, the friend begins: they lead sick, wounded, broken-legged mules in the hope that the white man does not understand a lot about mules, and only then they begin to bring good mules one by one and for a real price. Thus, in three days we were lucky enough to buy four. Our Abdulaiye helped us a lot, who, although he took bribes from sellers, still tried very hard in our favor. But the baseness of Haile’s translator became clear during these days. Not only did he not look for mules, but he even, it seems, exchanged winks with the hotel owner in order to keep us there as long as possible. I released him right there in Harare. I was advised to look for another translator at the Catholic mission. I went there with Yokhanzhan. We entered through the half-open door and found ourselves in a large, immaculately clean courtyard. Against the backdrop of high white walls, quiet Capuchins in brown robes bowed to us. Nothing reminded us of Abyssinia; it seemed as if we were in Toulouse or Arles. In a simply decorated room, the monsignor himself, the Bishop of Galla, a Frenchman of about fifty with wide-open, as if surprised, eyes ran out to us. He was extremely kind and pleasant to deal with, but the years spent among the savages, due to the general monastic naivety, made his presence felt. He somehow too easily, like a seventeen-year-old college girl, was surprised, happy and sad at everything we said. He knew one translator, Gallas Paul, a former pupil of the mission, a very good boy, he would send him to me. We said goodbye and returned to the hotel, where Paul arrived two hours later. A tall guy with a rough peasant face, he smoked willingly, drank even more willingly, and at the same time looked sleepy, moved sluggishly, like a winter fly. We didn't agree on the price. Afterwards, in Dire Dawa, I took another mission student, Felix. According to the general statement of all the Europeans who saw him, he looked as if he was beginning to feel sick; when he climbed the stairs, one almost wanted to support him, and yet he was completely healthy, and also un tres brave garcon, as the missionaries found. I was told that all pupils of Catholic missions are like this. They give up their natural liveliness and intelligence in exchange for dubious moral virtues.

On May 1, 1913, Gumilyov's expedition departs for Harar. Here the poet-traveler had a lot to do so that he could finally really do his work. And the very first thing was that it was necessary to find an intelligent translator, mules and put together a full expedition. These events are reflected in the third chapter of the “African Diary”: “The road to Harar runs for the first twenty kilometers along the bed of the very river that I spoke about in the previous chapter. Its edges are quite vertical, and God forbid a traveler to end up on it during the rain "We, fortunately, were guaranteed against this danger, because the interval between two rains lasts about forty hours. And we were not the only ones who took advantage of the opportunity. Dozens of Abyssinians rode along the road, danakils passed, Galla women with saggy breasts carried bundles of firewood into the city and herbs. Long chains of camels, tied together by muzzles and tails, like funny rosaries strung on a thread, frightened our mules as they passed. They were waiting for the arrival in Dire Dawa of the Harar governor, Dedjazmag (the commander of the army at the door of the imperial tent. - V.P. ) Tafari, and we often met groups of Europeans riding out to meet him on pretty, frisky horses. The road resembled paradise on good Russian popular roads: unnaturally green grass, overly spreading tree branches, large colorful birds and herds of goats along the slopes of the mountains. The air is soft, transparent and as if permeated with grains of gold. Strong and sweet scent of flowers. And only the black people are strangely disharmonious with everything around them, like sinners walking in paradise, according to some not yet created legend. We rode at a trot and our ashkers ran ahead, still finding time to fool around and laugh with the passing women. The Abyssinians are famous for their fleetness of foot, and the general rule here is that at a great distance a pedestrian will overtake a horseman. After two hours of travel, the ascent began: a narrow path, sometimes turning straight into a ditch, wound almost vertically up the mountain. Large stones blocked the road, and we had to dismount from the mules and walk. It was difficult, but good. You have to run up, almost without stopping, and balance on sharp stones: this way you get less tired. Your heart beats and takes your breath away: as if you are going on a love date. And on the other hand, you are rewarded with the unexpected, like a kiss, fresh smell of a mountain flower, and a suddenly opened view of a gently misty valley. And when, finally, half suffocated and exhausted, we ascended the last ridge, calm water that we had not seen for so long flashed into our eyes, like a silver shield; mountain lake Adelie. I looked at my watch: the climb lasted an hour and a half. We were on the Harar plateau. The terrain has changed dramatically. Instead of mimosas, there were green banana palms and hedges of milkweed; instead of wild grass there are carefully cultivated fields of durro. In a Galla village we bought njira (a type of thick pancakes made of black dough that replace bread in Abyssinia) and ate it, surrounded by curious children who rushed to run away at our slightest movement. From here a direct road led to Harar, and in some places there were even bridges across deep cracks in the ground. We passed a second lake, Oromolo, twice the size of the first, shot a wading bird with two white growths on its head, spared a beautiful ibis, and five hours later found ourselves in front of Harar. Already from the mountain, Harar presented a majestic view with its red sandstone houses, tall European houses and sharp minarets of mosques. It is surrounded by a wall and the gate is not allowed after sunset. Inside, it’s completely Baghdad from the time of Harun al-Rashid. Narrow streets that go up and down in steps, heavy wooden doors, squares full of noisy people in white clothes, a court right there in the square - all this is full of the charm of old fairy tales. The petty frauds carried out in the city are also quite in the ancient spirit. A Negro boy of about ten years old, by all appearances a slave, was walking towards us along a crowded street with a gun on his shoulder, and an Abyssinian was watching him from around the corner. He didn't give us any directions, but since we were walking at a walk, it wasn't difficult for us to get around him. Now a handsome Hararit appeared, obviously in a hurry, since he was galloping. He shouted to the boy to step aside, but he did not listen and, hit by the mule, fell on his back like a wooden soldier, keeping the same calm seriousness on his face. The Abyssinian, watching from around the corner, rushed after the hararite and jumped up behind the saddle like a cat. "Ba Menelik, you killed a man." Hararit was already depressed, but at this time the black boy, who was obviously tired of lying, stood up and began to shake off the dust. The Abyssinian still managed to collect a thaler for the injury almost inflicted on his slave. We stayed in a Greek hotel, the only one in the city, where for a bad room and an even worse table they charged us a price worthy of the Parisian Grand Hotel's. But still, it was nice to drink a refreshing pinzermenta and play a game of greasy and gnawed chess. In Harare I met some acquaintances: the suspicious Maltese Karavana, a former bank official with whom I had a fatal quarrel in Addis Ababa, was the first to come to greet me. He was forcing someone else's bad mule on me, intending to get a commission. He offered to play poker, but I already knew his style of play. Finally, with monkey antics, he advised me to send the grandfather a box of champagne, so that he could then run in front of him and boast of his management. When none of his efforts were crowned with success, he lost all interest in me. But I myself sent to look for another of my Addis Ababa acquaintances - a small elderly Copt, the director of a local school.

Along the route of the poet Nikolai Gumilyov's trip to Ethiopia

Describing his African travels, Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilyov especially emphasized that he made the third and last trip to Abyssinia (as Ethiopia was then called - V.L.) in 1913 as the leader of an expedition sent by the Academy of Sciences. As an assistant, Gumilyov chose his nephew N.L. Sverchkov, a hunting enthusiast and naturalist, an easy-going person who was not afraid of hardships and dangers. After discussion at the Museum of Anthropology and Ethnography, a route was adopted from the port of Djibouti in the Bab el-Mandeb Strait to Harer, one of the most ancient cities of Ethiopia, and from there with a caravan through the southwest of the country. Already on the way, making nightly entries in a notebook, Nikolai Stepanovich could not forget the many months of walking along academic corridors, processing various certificates and letters of recommendation, exhausting purchases of tents, guns, saddles, packs, and food. “Really, preparations for the journey are more difficult than the journey itself,” exclaims Gumilyov the poet. But, as a researcher, he scrupulously studies the area of ​​his future travel, preparing to take photographs, record legends and songs, and collect ethnographic and zoological collections.

Thanks to the efforts of Nikolai Stepanovich in Ethiopia, it was possible to collect and deliver a rich collection to St. Petersburg. In his collection “Tent,” dedicated to African wanderings, the following lines appear:

There is a museum of ethnography in this city,
Above the Neva, wide as the Nile.
At the hour when I get tired of being only a poet,
I won't find anything more desirable than him.
I go there to touch savage things,
What I once brought from afar,
Hear their strange, familiar and ominous smell,
The smell of incense, animal hair and roses.

As soon as the steamer Tambov dropped anchor in Djibouti, a motor boat approached the side. For Gumilyov, this was something new, because previously he had crossed to the shore in yawls, where muscular Somalis sat on the oars. In addition, the port was now connected to the interior of Ethiopia by rail and the train ran to Dire Dawa twice a week.

Dire Dawa emerged as a transport center during the construction of the road, approximately halfway between Djibouti and Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, and, thanks to repair shops, became the main station on the line.

Introduced at one time to the imperial court in the Ethiopian capital, Gumilyov could not have been unaware of the advent of mail and telephone communications. The reforms and transformations of Menelik II were aimed at developing trade. But trade relations were hampered by the lack of convenient roads between the central province of Shoa and the coast.

Along mountain paths through Harer, caravans made their way to the sea for weeks: at first the luggage was carried by donkeys, and only later it was possible to transfer to camels. Merchant caravans were often attacked by bandits.

The famous explorer of Ethiopia, Russian officer Alexander Ksaverevich Bulatovich, for the first time mounted a camel, decided to cover over 350 miles from Djibouti to Harare. Local residents did not believe in this idea. But having overcome the mountainous, often deserted and waterless space much faster than professional messengers, he became a legendary figure in the country, receiving the nickname Bird from Emperor Menelik himself for his courier exploits.

But even the brave cavalryman Bulatovich considered this path far from safe and wrote in his reports to the Russian mission in Addis Ababa about unrest in the “Somali steppe” on the road from Djibouti to Harar. Just at the same time, at the very end of the last century, France, having received from Menelik II the right to monopoly construction of railway lines, began to build a road from Djibouti and already in 1902 brought it to Dire Dawa.

When you are now traveling in a small trailer along this narrow-gauge railway, it is easy to imagine how long and difficult it was to drive it through the Danakil desert, and to dig through many tunnels. The sleepers were laid in iron to prevent termites from eating them. Therefore, it was only in 1917 that Addis Ababa saw its first train.

Gumilyov left an accurate remark about this foreign concession: “It’s just a pity that it is owned by the French, who are usually very careless about their colonies (though Ethiopia has never been anyone’s colony - V.L.) and think that they have fulfilled their duty , if they sent there several officials who were completely alien to the country and did not love it.” Gumilyov would have expressed himself more sharply if he had known that, although the emperor formally gave the concession for the construction of the railway to an Ethiopian company, in reality the participation of the Ethiopians in it was fictitious - the entire enterprise was in the hands of French shareholders...

So - let's go. The small expedition boards second-class carriages in anticipation that in about ten hours they will be in Dire Dawa. Yes, traveling in a carriage is much more comfortable than riding for many days on the back of a “ship of the desert” across a waterless, cracked plain. The brown outlines of mountains flash in the distance, even from the train window you can see tiny dik-dik antelopes or Thomson's gazelles rushing past. On the side of the road are danakils leaning on spears with tousled caps of hair. Although the locomotives bore big names, like “Elephant” or “Buffalo,” they, unfortunately, did not justify them. On the way up, the train crawled like a turtle, and in front of the mighty locomotive, two proud nomads sprinkled sand on the rain-wet rails.

And the adventures were just beginning. About halfway through the journey, the train stopped completely - the track ahead was washed out for tens of kilometers, and the rails literally hung in the air. Here the travelers became convinced that the surrounding area was still, as in the time of Bulatovich, unsafe. As soon as they walked about three kilometers away from the train, over a rocky hill, the Ashkers, the guard soldiers, rushed after them, waving their arms and shouting something. It turned out that the nomads set up ambushes and could attack, or simply throw a spear - especially at an unarmed person. The soldiers took the travelers to the train, carefully examining the thickets of bushes and piles of stones.

Later, travelers could see how much danger they were exposed to by observing how deftly and accurately the nomads threw spears, piercing even the smallest objects with them in flight.

According to the stories of the faithful N.L. Sverchkov, his companion was not always careful when dealing with the local population. An emotional Gumilyov could have violated the rules of eastern diplomacy. Once he even snatched a cane from a local judge, which was due to his position. True, the polite judge did not fail to give the ill-fated cane, and that ended the conflict...

Undoubtedly, Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilyov was a courageous man - during the First World War he became a holder of two soldiers' St. George's. Otherwise, he would not have gone on an African journey full of hardships and dangers. But still, his actions sometimes went beyond the bounds of prudence. So, crossing the river in a basket suspended on a rope, he, for fun, began to swing the basket over the water infested with crocodiles. The travelers barely had time to set foot on the opposite bank when the water-washed tree to which the rope was tied fell into the river...

The long wait was unusual for Gumilyov’s character: he was burning with impatience to quickly get into the interior of the country. When a work train arrived to repair the track, Gumilyov, without waiting for the completion of the repair work, set off along the faulty track along with a postal courier on a handcar for transporting stones. Ashkers were placed behind to guard, and tall Somalis unanimously grabbed the handles of the trolley, shouting in rhythm “eyde-he, eydehe” (the local version of “Dubinushka”). And the crew headed for Dire Dawa.

These days, in this much-expanded city, perhaps one thing remains unchanged: the station and the wait for the “babur,” as the train from Djibouti is called in Amharic. Just like many years ago, the rails begin to hum, and a noisy multilingual crowd fills the platform in anticipation of the meeting. Before the train has time to stop, people of various skin tones pour out of the crowded carriages, interspersed with bales and various luggage, and spread out in a colorful stream along the dusty streets with little white houses.

In Dire Dawa, Gumilyov’s expedition was not particularly expected, which by that time had moved from the handcar to a special carriage. Everyone looked quite pitiful: with blisters on their skin reddened by the merciless sun, in dusty, wrinkled clothes and shoes torn by sharp stones. But the real journey was just beginning: there was no railway line to Harar - it was necessary to “make a caravan”.

I had the opportunity to travel through the ancient land of the Harerge province in the vehicles of a Soviet oil exploration expedition. If Gumilyov traveled to Harar overnight, then on the Volga he could reach the capital of this region in a matter of hours. But not all roads in the savannah and mountains are accessible to cars. These roads are still not easy for pedestrians and pack animals, because the hot sun, the lack of water, and the red dust carried by the hot winds are still the same as before...

Just as before, travelers with heavy burdens stubbornly go to Harar, half-naked Somali women, mothers and wives of nomads carry children. The camels, like “funny rosaries strung on a thread,” each tied with a rope to the tail of the one in front, carry bundles of brushwood mounted on wooden goats-saddles. From the caravan guides, Gumilyov learned to choose well-fed camels so that the hump, a storehouse of fat reserves, would not hang to one side, but would stand straight. I saw how, before a long journey, a camel swallows tens of liters of water, swelling right before our eyes. And such a caravan travels with a heavy load for many tens of kilometers, from sunrise to sunset. Camels stubbornly walk along the impassable roads, only the water sways in their bellies, as if in half-empty barrels. A caravan goes by, passing trucks stuck in the sand.

On the way to Harar, I remember Gumilev’s business note about the importance for the development of Ethiopian trade of the railway line to Djibouti, where “hides, coffee, gold and ivory” will be exported. Gold was panned in mountain streams in the southwestern regions of the country and little of it was exported. The situation was different with skins and ivory. Ethiopia still successfully trades in skins and furs and products made from them. Local ivory was also highly valued, and was sold even by the emperor himself, who used tusks to pay off debts. But mostly ivory was resold to other countries, including Russia, at the beginning of the century by French companies, and at a very high price. Ivory products can still be bought in Harare, but there are far fewer elephants due to predatory extermination.

Gumilyov, having seen the tails of elephants killed during a hunt in front of the house of a local merchant, it was no coincidence that he made the following remark: “Before, there were also tusks, but since the Abyssinians conquered the country, we have to be content with only tails.” Nowadays, only to the southeast of Harar, in narrow river valleys, can individual groups of elephants be found.

On the contrary, the plantations of coffee, which has now become the main product of Ethiopian export, have increased significantly since the travel of Gumilyov, who loved to “wander along the white paths between the coffee fields.” Now there are green coffee bushes on both sides of the road. Wild red berries are still collected, especially in the province of Kafa - the coffee center of the country - where the word “coffee” itself is believed to have come from.

More than once I have heard a legend about how, in very ancient times, the monks who lived here began to notice that their goats began to show immoderate playfulness in broad daylight. Having watched them while grazing, the monks saw that the goats were chewing reddish berries on a nondescript bush. We prepared a drink from these berries and established the reason for the goat’s vigor.

Once Bulatovich also noted that wild coffee, collected after falling from a tree, turns black on the ground and loses part of its aroma, and “Harar coffee is more valued, since it is collected on time.” It was this “Abyssinian coffee called mocha” that came to St. Petersburg.

In the province of Harer, at the large state farm “Erer,” I was treated to the strongest and at the same time mild-tasting Harer coffee from a clay pot.

I arrived just in time to collect coffee. As in ancient times, it is dried in the sun and then peeled. A better product is obtained after washing and fermenting the berries in water. The wet cleaning method is now becoming more widespread; dozens of washing and cleaning stations are being created in peasant cooperatives.

On the plantations here, seedlings of a new highly productive variety, obtained at the station for the selection of coffee varieties, appeared.

“Even English experts from the London Institute for Plant Genetics Research assessed the results achieved in our country as the most significant in the entire history of the development of coffee production,” the local agronomist said proudly.

Out of curiosity, I asked to see the khat bush, the leaves of which Gumilev treated one old sheikh all day in order to get his turban for the ethnographic collection. The population of these places still chews the leaves of this plant. The bush looked very ordinary, although the khat leaves contain narcotic substances. They are exported.

The road to Harar rises higher and higher on the plateau in a serpentine way, throwing out from behind sharp turns towards our car either mincing donkeys, barely visible under armfuls of brushwood, or a crowded bus with curious faces sticking out of the windows. Villages flash by on the side of the road. If it weren’t for the former Italian barracks with battlements and wrecked tanks under the umbrella acacia trees, rusting here since the military conflict with Somalia, then one could assume that the same idyllic landscape in its frozen brightness - a cloudless blue sky, brown mountains, dense the greenery of the valleys - unfolded before us, as it once did before the travelers of Gumilyov’s expedition. True, then, leaving the mules below, they climbed the path “half-choked and exhausted” and finally climbed the last ridge. The view of the misty valley struck the poet:

“The road resembled paradise on good Russian popular prints: unnaturally green grass, overly spreading tree branches, large colorful birds and herds of goats along the mountain slopes. The air is soft, transparent and as if permeated with grains of gold. Strong and sweet scent of flowers. And only black people are strangely disharmonious with everything around them, like sinners walking in paradise...”

Everything is authentic in Gumilyov’s painting, but the bright figures we encounter still fit well into the landscape. We stopped to rest near one village, approximately the same as the one Gumilev saw on the way, where “in front of the huts of the Gallas you can hear the smell of incense, their favorite incense.” The Galla, or Oromo, as this warlike people call themselves, who moved here from the south several centuries ago, also lived there. The nomadic Galla tribes, whose life Gumilev the ethnographer was interested in, mixed with the local population, became sedentary and took up farming.

Chickens were walking along the empty street of the village, and a girl was dragging her bare-bellied brother by the hand. At the height of the working day, the tukuli, similar to the Amhara ones - the same pointed thatched roofs over round huts - were empty. Behind the trees that sheltered the huts from the heat, a yellow slope began, where men, tall and strong, were stacking stalks of corn and millet tied into sheaves. Higher up the slope, half-naked, curly-haired boys were driving skinny cows, goats and black-headed sheep out of the bushes. Several children's figures, bent over, walked across the field: cutting high stubble with sickles. Probably for fuel, which is in short supply here.

Gumilyov noted that along the road there are often markets where they sell bundles of brushwood. The forest was cut down so much that fast-growing eucalyptus had to be introduced here at the end of the last century. We have seen more than once how new rows of eucalyptus seedlings stretch along the roads. The afforestation campaign, led by the Department of Forestry Development and Wildlife Conservation, has become especially widespread in recent years of the fight against drought. Farmers across the country are taking forestry courses.

Now people from Australia look very natural among the local flora. Those young eucalyptus trees that Gumilyov passed by near Harar turned into avenues of trees - columns supporting the high sky with green crowns.

On the outskirts of the village on the shore of the lake, a general wash was going on: dozens of dark-skinned women rinsed their linen in stone troughs filled with water; After squeezing, they scattered bright stains of fabric on the hot stones - everything dried instantly under the sizzling rays. Having thrown their laundry into baskets and placed burdens on their heads, the women, slender and strong, walked in line. Swaying smoothly, almost without holding the basket with their hand, they performed as if in a dance. It was as if there had never been a hard, hot day filled with labor, as if there was no heavy burden pressing down on me. The Galla women carried their burden with dignity, welcoming us with white-toothed smiles.

Outside the village they came across riders on decorated horses. Gumilyov also noticed similar ones behind Dire Dawa. Since ancient times, the horse has been a faithful companion of the Amhara and Galla warriors - the two main peoples of Ethiopia. To be a plowman or a warrior - is there a more worthy occupation for men? Ethiopians have always tried to richly decorate their harness and saddles. Such a remarkable detail speaks of the greatest respect for the horse. The battle cry of the loyal warriors of Menelik II was not the name of the emperor, but the name of his horse - Aba Danya, which means “Father Judge”.

Unfortunately, we were late for the September horse games-guks, reminiscent of a cavalry battle. First, individual daredevils rush forward and throw darts at the enemy, who deflect them with a shield. But now the battle becomes general: the riders gallop towards each other, darts whistle in the air, sometimes they click on shields, sometimes they knock the riders to the ground. Darts have no tips, but can penetrate a shield and cause injury.

The famous military leader of Menelik II, ras (literally this means “head”, but also means “prince.”— V.L.). Gobana, a Galla by origin, who annexed the Galla lands of Harer to Ethiopia at the end of the last century, a remarkable cavalryman and brave man, died, knocked off his horse while playing guks.

Menelik’s best cavalry was the Galla cavalry - the poet Gumilyov admired it:

Like tall Gallas, galloping
In leopard skins and lion skins,
Fleeing ostriches are cut from the shoulder
On hot giant horses.

In Gumilyov's notes, instead of the date of the loss of Harar's independence, an ellipsis is placed. This year, which the researcher did not have time to check, is 1887. And then there is the phrase: “This year, Negus Menelik, in the Battle of Chelonko in Gergera, completely defeated the Harar Negus Abdullah...” All spellings of names, of course, are the author’s, you just need to stipulate, that Abdullah was not a negus, but an emir. Thus fell the Harar Sultanate, whose history has many remarkable pages.

The poet Gumilyov admired “the majestic simplicity of the Abyssinian songs and the gentle lyricism of the Gallas” and, without a doubt, wrote them down a lot, as he refers in his diary to an appendix (it has not yet been found - V.L.), in which the text is given in Russian transcription , and gives as an example a Galla song where “Kharar, which is higher than the land of the Danakils...” is sung.

Galla war songs and folk legends depict one amazingly colorful figure, perhaps the most famous ruler in the history of Harar’s independence. A man who waged a devastating “holy war” with Ethiopia in the mid-16th century. This is Ahmed al-Ghazi, nicknamed Lefty Edge, who declared himself an imam and threw Muslim armies into the deep regions of Christian Ethiopia. The mighty figure of Gran with a saber in his left hand sowed terror in the camp of the Ethiopian troops, and popular fantasy attributed to him supernatural qualities.

Even during Gumilev’s expedition, residents could show traces of his saber on the stones or a source in the rocks that appeared after the blow of Gran’s spear.

Churches and monasteries, wonderful manuscripts and icons were destroyed by fire and sword - and there is information that Gran's troops also had cannons. Columns of slaves, herds of cattle, and caravans with looted textiles, gold, ivory, and precious stones reached Harer. Convoys with trophies sometimes interfered with the movement of armies. In a narrow passage between the rocks, which is still shown in Ethiopia, Lefty Edge once stopped the troops and ordered to cut off the heads of everyone whose mules, burdened with booty, could not pass through the rocky passage.

Only a Portuguese bullet from the musket of one of the shooters of the detachment of Cristavan da Gama (son of the famous navigator Vasco da Gama), who fought on the side of the Ethiopian emperor, turned out to be fatal for Imam Ahmed ibn Ibrahim al-Ghazi. The place where Gran died is still called Gran Bar - “Gran Gorge.” The Thirty Years' War continued to devastate the lands of Ethiopia and the Harar Sultanate, and epidemics of cholera and smallpox began.

Along a long and bright eucalyptus alley we approach the gates of thousand-year-old Harar. “Already from the mountain, Harar presented a majestic view with its red sandstone houses, tall European houses and sharp minarets of mosques,” Gumilyov wrote. “It is surrounded by a wall, and no one is allowed through the gates after sunset.”

You might not even notice this squat gate in the low wall if you don’t know how long they remember and what they saw. Many rich caravans passed through them. The mules of Gran-Lefty's warriors carried looted treasures from distant Ethiopian lands, and exhausted slaves, captured by a frantic imam, trudged along. In the last year of the Thirty Years' War, which did not bring either glory or prosperity to the Harare Sultanate, young Nur, who led the troops after the death of Gran, threw at the feet of his beautiful widow, with whom he was passionately in love, the head of the Ethiopian emperor who had fallen on the battlefield. In those days, passing through the gate, the inhabitants of Harar turned away from the high pillar with the disfigured head of the young Emperor Gelaudeuos, sadly whispering: “The cruel execution brought heavenly punishment on all of us: drought, famine, disease...”

Through the fortress gates, Gumilyov was freely allowed into the city, which seemed to him like Baghdad from the fairy tales of Scheherazade. A lot of urgent expeditionary matters had accumulated (preparing the caravan, troubles with getting weapons through customs, completing various necessary papers), and we had to stay late. Gumilyov walked with pleasure along the winding stepped streets, taking a closer look at the life and customs of the inhabitants of the multilingual city.

Leaving the car in the square near the ancient gates - even now you can’t get everywhere in the old city - I decided to wander through the narrow streets, squeezed by houses and high walls made of large stones. Voices, women's laughter and the splashing of water were heard behind them. In the dwellings, hidden from idle gaze, a different life was hidden, incomprehensible to prying eyes. Through the slightly open narrow gates, scraps of everyday scenes flashed in the tiny courtyards: a girl threw colored linens and carpets onto ropes; a cauldron of spicy brew was smoking on the hearth; the children were pulling a donkey with a huge load. Heavy wooden doors led into the mysterious interior of silent houses. Having turned the corner of a noticeable house with a turret, I found myself in a tiny alley: on the white walls there are light shadows of carved leaves, the sun is blinding my eyes, the dry smell of dust, silence... The Eternal City - Gumilyov loved to jostle among the people in the squares, to bargain for the one he liked old things in markets. While his companion Sverchkov was chasing insects, tiny red, blue, golden beauties in the outskirts of the city, Gumilyov was collecting an ethnographic collection. “This hunt for things is extremely exciting,” he noted in his diary, “little by little a picture of the life of an entire people appears before one’s eyes, and the impatience to see more and more of it grows.” Gumilev dug into the dark corners of the streets in search of old things, without waiting for an invitation, he went into houses to inspect the utensils, tried to understand the purpose of any object. Once I bought a spinning machine. To understand its structure, I also had to understand the loom.

In Gumilyov's notes there is a scene with humorous, psychologically accurate details, which could be called: “How they tried to deceive me when buying a mule.” Now, as then, there are no special “floss fairs”, but at the bazaars they sell everything - from cows and horses to injera - pancakes made from teff flour, which the hospitable Gallas treated Gumilyov to. True, the poet tried thick black pancakes, and we were seated in front of a wicker table, on which the same pancakes, but whiter and thinly rolled out, lay in a high stack. Such painted tables, baskets, boxes, trays of very skillful workmanship were offered to us at the Harar bazaars by craftsmen. Their products made from straw, reed, and wicker are known throughout the country.

Having learned that the Catholic mission is preparing translators from local residents, Gumilyov meets its students in order to choose an assistant for the expedition. True, at the same time he cannot refrain from making an ironic remark: “They give up their natural liveliness and intelligence in exchange for dubious moral virtues.” Bowing in the clean courtyard, reminiscent of a corner of a French town, with quiet Capuchins in brown robes, talking with Monseigneur, the Bishop of Gallas, did Nikolai Gumilyov imagine that another poet had already been here before? Hardly. Only Baudelaire's name is mentioned in the Harer Notebook. What a pity that Nikolai Gumilyov could not have known about the poet, who lived in Harare for ten long and painful years. In difficult moments, the poet consulted with Bishop Jerome, almost the only person close to him here. The poet's name was Arthur Rimbaud. Was the frantic wanderer Arthur Rimbaud, in Hugo’s words, “Shakespeare’s child”, even friendly with anyone?

There is a certain predetermination of the destinies of the two poets: both aspired to Africa; both crossed paths in a tiny point on the great continent, in Harare, although twenty years apart; both are fascinated by the fate of the same Galla people, and Rimbaud even writes a study about the life of the Gauls and submits it to the Paris Geographical Society.

But what different goals they pursued! Gumilev goes to Africa as a research scientist, and twenty-four-year-old Rimbaud, having read books about conquistadors and African treasures, leaves France to make “his million.”

A true poet, whose poems were published only after his death, abandons poetry and turns into an adventurer, a trader in ivory and coffee. In pursuit of the ghostly “golden million,” he crosses the desert on a camel and lives in a tent. He already has dozens of Ethiopian servants and his own trading house, which quickly exchanges cheap beads and fabrics for gold. But the severity of African life and tropical diseases take their toll. His leg begins to hurt, Rimbaud cannot walk due to the tumor, and slaves carry him away on a stretcher from Harar. An exhausting road to the coast under the tropical sun, a road that turned out to be Rimbaud’s last.

But there was no way out. In Harare at that time, which had the same population as today, there was no medical care of any kind. Only a few years after Rimbaud’s departure, the first sanitary detachment of the Russian Red Cross arrived there, following the above-mentioned Bulatovich. And to this day, sufferers from all over the area flock here to the oldest hospital in the country.

Rimbaud, who with difficulty reached Marseilles, having suffered a severe amputation of his leg, writes from the hospital to his relatives: “What melancholy, what fatigue, what despair... Where have the mountain passes, cavalcades, walks, rivers and seas gone!..”

In the last days of his life, thirty-seven-year-old Arthur Rimbaud never remembered that he had once been a poet. In his youthful work “Summer in Hell,” the only book published during his lifetime, he said goodbye to poetry and wrote: “I am leaving Europe. The sea wind will burn my lungs; the climate of a distant country will tan my skin... I will return with iron hands, dark skin, a mad look... I will have gold.”

Deceived in his dreams, Rimbaud died crippled in a miserable hospital bed, and in a feverish delirium African visions of his youthful unfulfilled “golden” dream flashed before him.

In the Marseilles hospital, in the hospital register, it was written down that the merchant Rimbaud had died. None of those around him suspected that the great poet Arthur Rimbaud had passed away.

Only one Makonnin from the entire imperial entourage agreed to become the ruler of such a remote outskirts inhabited by rebellious Muslims. And he successfully coped with this task, winning among the population of the huge province an authority no less than the imperial one.

Having become interested in such an outstanding personality, Gumilyov could not help but know the opinion of him at the imperial court, the attitude towards him in the Russian mission. All European travelers and diplomats who visited Harar, the center of the intersection of caravan routes, noted Makonnin's diplomatic abilities, his ability to govern a province where so many tribes lived, Muslims and Christians. From the spark of a national, religious clash, the fire of war could break out in one moment. This almost happened one day...

I remembered that old story when, through the winding streets of old Harar, I got out into a round square and immediately noticed an old church. She simply hurt the eyes with her foreignness in a Muslim city tightly closed by white walls. Before the capture of Harar by Menelik's troops, only mosque minarets stood there. But now, when Amharas from the central province of Shoa appeared in the city, Makonnin had to think about building Christian churches. But will Muslims accept this? Ras did not want to use force so as not to inflame the religious conflict.

A seasoned diplomat, he resolved this by no means unimportant problem in a surprisingly simple, not without wit, way.

Makonnin invited Muslim elders to the council and announced that he was refusing to build a church, meeting them halfway. But since Christians must communicate with God somewhere, he proposes to divide the mosque into two parts: one to leave for Muslims, the other to give to Christians from Shoah. The elders had no choice but to agree to the construction of the church.

Perhaps this ancient church on the square was the first temple erected by the cunning race?

Gumilyov also notes Makonnin’s “successful wars”. He expanded the borders of his province, led the vanguard of a hundred thousand imperial army and defeated a large detachment of the Italian expeditionary force. This began the defeat of the Italian invaders, a defeat unknown in the history of the colonial enslavement of Africa. The historic victory at Adwa is still celebrated as a national holiday in Ethiopia.

Perhaps, out of respect for Makonnin Sr., the independent Gumilyov did not shy away from meeting his son Tefari, a pupil of Monsignor Jerome, a friend of Rimbaud. In addition, the issuance of a pass for further travel around the country depended on Tefari Makonnin, the ruler of Harar.

The meeting in the palace of the ruler of Harar and the scene of photographing him and his wife are vividly captured in Gumilyov’s diary.

He is quite ironic in describing the house of the governor and Tafari Makonnin himself, who is “soft, indecisive and unenterprising.” We might not dwell on this if it were not for one circumstance that has not yet been noted by anyone. Gumilyov met in Harare not just with the son of Makonnin, but with the future regent of Zaudita, the daughter of Menelik II, who was placed on the throne with the help of Tefari Makonnin. Perhaps the caution of the ruler of Harare, who was careful not to issue travel permission to the Russian traveler, allowed him to bide his time and become Emperor Haile Selassie I.

Gumilyov could hardly have foreseen such a turn in the fate of the ruler of Harar, presenting him as a gift - on the advice of knowledgeable people - a box of vermouth.

Gumilyov had many unexpected meetings, useful and pleasant, sometimes funny or upsetting, in the palaces and on the streets of old Harar. Attentive and friendly to unfamiliar morals and customs, he was always indignant when he saw an unfair trial and legalized slavery.

Although, as A.K. Bulatovich noted, the Abyssinians could easily do without slaves, but “on the Galla outskirts, slaves are used as agricultural labor. Slavery is very common. The slave trade has not stopped yet, despite the formidable decree of Emperor Menelik...”

Gumilev could not remain indifferent to the humiliation of human dignity. There are notes about this in his diary, but the most amazing thing is that the memory of the “humanist Gumilyov” is still alive in Ethiopia. In response to publications about this journey of Gumilyov in periodicals, a letter from O. F. E. Abdi recently came from distant Africa and was published. This is what he writes: “On the day the poet left our house (Gumilyov stayed overnight in the house of his guide - V.L.) in Harar, a local landowner tied his worker by the leg to a tree. Gumilyov untied him and brought him to Dire Dawa..."

Old Harar is small: after getting lost in the interweaving of its streets, I go out to the outskirts of the city. A dazzling white square with an amphitheater of stone benches along the slope of a hill topped by a mosque. Lilac jacaranda branches stretch below, covering the village street: tiny tukuls under the yellow caps of thatched roofs. Remains of the ancient outskirts of Harar, where Gumilyov wandered...

The notebook of the discovered “Harer diary” of Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilyov ends, (Gumilyov N. African Diary - “Ogonyok”, 1987, No. 14, 15.) but we know that his journey did not end:

Eight days from Xapapa I led a caravan
Through the wild Chercher Mountains.
And he shot gray-haired monkeys in the trees,
He fell asleep among the roots of the sycamore tree.

The continuation of the journey through Ethiopia could be told by other, not yet found, notebooks with notes from the poet and research scientist N.S. Gumilyov. Who knows, maybe they are in someone’s archives?

Africa - an unexplored land where mysterious tribes live in the depths of the jungle - has long attracted the eyes and thoughts of travelers and poets. But why was Abyssinia the goal of all N.S. Gumilyov’s trips? This is hardly a random choice. After reading collections of poems reflecting African impressions, one can say that Gumilev’s range of interests went far beyond the sphere of life of local tribes, beyond the sphere of interests of an ethnographer.

Back in the 12th century, Russia was interested in the distant African country, and from the middle of the 18th century, its ancient Ge'ez language began to be studied. In the 19th century, the Ethiopian language was studied at St. Petersburg University, and many Russian scientists and travelers began traveling to Ethiopia, reports on whose expeditions and on the life and culture of the peoples of Ethiopia were widely published. Russia was interested in the existence of an independent Ethiopia, and at the height of the Italo-Ethiopian War, Menelik II sent an emergency embassy to St. Petersburg.

Naturally, the progressive public fully supported the struggle of the Ethiopian people against the invaders, and therefore Leo Tolstoy’s article “To the Italians” - an exposure of the crimes of the Italian government trying to enslave Ethiopia - aroused a wide response. Funds were raised throughout Russia, and a medical detachment was sent to Africa.

All thinking people knew about the fighting Ethiopia, they spoke about it, and it could not help but come to the attention of Gumilyov.

And one more thing: isn’t the poet-Gumilyov’s craving for Ethiopia connected with the name of Pushkin? As you know, the great-grandfather of the great poet, the son of one of the rulers of the northern regions of Ethiopia, was captured by the Turks, ended up in Istanbul, and from there by a Russian envoy he was taken to Russia, where Peter I named him Abram Petrovich Hannibal.

Doesn't Gumilev's verse gravitate towards Pushkin's? Perhaps he wanted to set foot on the land of Alexander Sergeevich’s ancestors?

But, perhaps, Gumilyov’s “African Diary” itself reveals the motivating reason for the journey undertaken. At the beginning of the notebook, he writes about “a dream that survives despite all the difficulties of its fulfillment.” Gumilyov intended to find “unknown mysterious tribes” in the Danakil desert. He was sure that they were free, and longed “to unite them and, having found access to the sea, to civilize them.” “Another member will be added to the family of nations,” Gumilyov dreamed. Perhaps this also attracted him to Ethiopia?

The Ethiopian collections of the poet-traveler are still preserved in the Leningrad Museum of Anthropology and Ethnography. And together with his sonorous lines about the “witchcraft country,” they create for us a captivating image of distant Ethiopia.

V. Lebedev, our specialist. corr. Photo by A. Serbin and V. Mikhailov

Addis Ababa - Dire Dawa - Harar - Moscow

The locomotives bore big names, like “Elephant” or “Buffalo”, but, unfortunately, they did not justify them. On the way up, the train crawled like a turtle, and in front of the mighty locomotive, two proud nomads sprinkled sand on the rain-wet rails.

And the adventures were just beginning. About halfway through the journey, the train stopped completely - the track ahead was washed out for tens of kilometers, and the rails literally hung in the air. Here the travelers became convinced that the surrounding area was still, as in the time of Bulatovich, unsafe. As soon as they walked three kilometers away from the train, over a rocky hill, the Ashkers, the security soldiers, rushed after them, waving their arms and shouting something. It turned out that the nomads set up ambushes and could attack, or simply throw a spear - especially at an unarmed person. The soldiers took the travelers to the train, carefully examining the thickets of bushes and piles of stones.

Later, travelers could see how much danger they were exposed to by observing how deftly and accurately the nomads threw spears, piercing even the smallest objects with them in flight.

According to the stories of the faithful N.L. Sverchkov, his companion was not always careful when dealing with the local population. An emotional Gumilyov could have violated the rules of eastern diplomacy. Once he even snatched a cane from a local judge, which was due to his position. True, the polite judge did not fail to give the ill-fated cane, and that ended the conflict...

Undoubtedly, Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilyov was a courageous man - during the First World War he became a holder of two soldiers' "St. Georges". Otherwise, he would not have gone on an African journey full of hardships and dangers. But still, his actions sometimes went beyond the bounds of prudence. So, crossing the river in a basket suspended on a rope, he, for fun, began to swing the basket over the water infested with crocodiles. The travelers barely had time to set foot on the opposite bank when the water-washed tree to which the rope was tied fell into the river...

The long wait was unusual for Gumilyov’s character: he was burning with impatience to quickly get into the interior of the country. When a work train arrived to repair the track, Gumilyov, without waiting for the completion of the repair work, set off along the faulty track along with a postal courier on a handcar for transporting stones. Ashkers were placed behind to guard, and tall Somalis unanimously grabbed the handles of the trolley, shouting in rhythm “eyde-he, eydehe” (the local version of “Dubinushka”). And the crew headed for Dire Dawa.

Nowadays, in this much-expanded city, perhaps one thing remains unchanged: the station and the wait for the “babur” - as the train from Djibouti is called in Amharic. Just like many years ago, the rails begin to hum, and a noisy multilingual crowd fills the platform in anticipation of the meeting. Before the train has time to stop, people of all kinds pour out of the overcrowded carriages, mixed with bales and various luggage.

skin tones and spread in a colorful stream along the dusty streets with little white houses.

In Dire Dawa, Gumilyov’s expedition was not particularly expected, which by that time had moved from the handcar to a special carriage. Everyone looked quite pitiful: with blisters on their skin reddened by the merciless sun, in dusty, wrinkled clothes and shoes torn by sharp stones. But the real journey was just beginning: there was no railway line to Harar - it was necessary to “make a caravan”.

I had the opportunity to travel through the ancient land of the Harerge province in the vehicles of a Soviet oil exploration expedition. If Gumilyov traveled to Harar overnight, then on the Volga he could reach the capital of this region in a matter of hours. But not all roads in the savannah and mountains are accessible to cars. These roads are still not easy for pedestrians and pack animals, because the hot sun, the lack of water, and the red dust carried by the hot winds are still the same as before -

Just as before, travelers with heavy burdens stubbornly go to Harar, half-naked Somali women, mothers and wives of nomads carry children. Camels, like “funny rosaries strung on a thread” - each is tied with a rope to the tail of the one in front - carry bundles of brushwood mounted on wooden

"Battle of Adua".

Artist Venumu Wolde

goats-saddles. From the caravan guides, Gumilyov learned to choose well-fed camels so that the hump, the storehouse of fat reserves, would not hang to one side, but would stand straight. I saw how, before a long journey, a camel swallows tens of liters of water, swelling right before our eyes. And such a caravan travels with a heavy load for many tens of kilometers, from sunrise to sunset. Camels stubbornly walk along the impassable roads, only the water sways in their bellies, as if in half-empty barrels. A caravan goes by, passing trucks stuck in the sand.

On the way to Harar, I remember Gumilev’s business note about the importance for the development of Ethiopian trade of the railway line to Djibouti, where “hides, coffee, gold and ivory” will be exported. Gold was panned in mountain streams in the southwestern regions of the country and little of it was exported. The situation was different with skins and ivory. Ethiopia still successfully trades in skins and furs and products made from them. Local ivory was also highly valued, and was sold even by the emperor himself, who used tusks to pay off debts. But mostly ivory was resold to other countries, including Russia, at the beginning of the century by French companies, and at very high prices.

In Dire Dawa, Gumilyov’s expedition was not particularly expected, which by that time had moved from the handcar to a special carriage. Everyone looked pretty sad: with blisters on their skin reddened by the merciless sun, wrinkled clothes and shoes torn by sharp stones. But the real journey was just beginning: there was no railway line to Harar - it was necessary to “form a caravan”.

…I had the opportunity to travel through the ancient land of the province of Harar in the vehicles of a Soviet oil exploration expedition. If Gumilyov got to Harar with an overnight stay, now on the Volga you can reach the capital of this region in a matter of hours. But not all roads in the savannah and mountains are accessible to cars. These roads are still especially difficult for pedestrians and pack animals, because the hot sun, the desertion, and the red dust carried by the hot winds are still the same as before.

Just as before, travelers with heavy burdens stubbornly go to Harar, half-naked Somali women, mothers and wives of nomads carry children. The camels, like funny rosaries strung on a thread, each tied with a string to the tail of the one in front, carry bundles of brushwood mounted on wooden goats-saddles. From the caravan guides, Gumilyov learned to choose the most well-fed camels, so that the hump - the storage of fat reserves - would not hang to one side, but would stand straight. I saw how, before a long journey, a camel swallows tens of liters of water, swelling right before our eyes. And such a caravan travels with a heavy load for many tens of kilometers, from sunrise to sunset. He walks, passing trucks stuck in the sand.

On the way to Harar, I remember Gumilev’s business note about the importance for the development of Ethiopian trade of the railway line to Djibouti, where “hides, coffee, gold and ivory” will be exported. Gold was panned in mountain streams in the southwestern regions of the country and little of it was exported. The situation was different with skins and ivory. Ethiopia still successfully trades in skins, furs and products made from them. Local ivory was also highly valued, and was sold even by the emperor himself, who used tusks to pay off debts. But at the beginning of the century, ivory was resold to other countries, including Russia, mainly by French companies, and at a very high price. Ivory products can still be bought in Harare, but there are far fewer elephants.

It is no coincidence that Gumilyov, seeing the tails of elephants killed during a hunt in front of a local merchant’s house, made the following remark: “Before, there were also tusks, but since the Abyssinians conquered the country, we have to be content with only tails.” Nowadays, only to the southeast of Harar, in narrow river valleys, can individual groups of elephants be found. On the contrary, the plantations of coffee, which has now become the main product of Ethiopian export, have increased significantly since the travel of Gumilyov, who loved to “wander along the white paths between the coffee fields.” Now there are green coffee bushes on both sides of the road. Wild red berries are still collected, especially in the province of Kafa - the coffee center of the country - where the name “coffee” is believed to have come from.

... The road to Harar rises higher and higher in a serpentine direction, as if throwing out from behind sharp turns towards our car either mincing donkeys, barely visible under armfuls of brushwood, or a crowded bus with curious people sticking out of the windows. Villages and former Italian barracks with battlements flash along the roadside. If it were not for the wrecked tanks under the umbrella acacia trees, rusting here since the time of the military conflict with Somalia, then one could see the same idyllic landscape - blue sky without clouds, brown mountains, dense green valleys - opening before Gumilyov and his companions. Then, leaving the mules below, they climbed the path “half-choked and exhausted” and finally climbed the last ridge. The view of the foggy valley struck the poet: “The road resembled paradise on good Russian popular prints: unnaturally green grass, overly spreading tree branches, large colorful birds and herds of goats along the slopes of the mountains. The air is soft, transparent and as if permeated with grains of gold. Strong and sweet scent of flowers. And only black people are strangely disharmonious with everything around them, like sinners walking in paradise...”

Everything is authentic in Gumilyov’s painting, but the bright figures we encounter still fit well into the landscape. We stopped to rest near one village, approximately the same as the one Gumilev saw on the way, where “in front of the huts of the Gallas you can hear the smell of incense, their favorite smoking.” The Galla, or Oromo, as this warlike people call themselves, who moved here from the south several centuries ago, also lived there. The nomadic Galla tribes, whose life Gumilev the ethnographer was interested in, mixed with the local population, became sedentary and took up farming.

...Chickens were walking along the empty street of the village, and a girl was dragging a bare-bellied boy by the hand. At the height of the working day, tukuli, similar to Amharic ones - the same pointed thatched roofs over round walls - were empty. Behind the trees that sheltered the huts from the heat, a yellow slope began, where men, tall and strong, were stacking stalks of maize and millet tied into sheaves. Higher up the slope, half-naked, curly-haired boys were driving skinny cows, goats and black-headed sheep out of the bushes. Several children's figures, bent over, walked across the field: cutting high stubble with sickles. Probably for fuel, which is in short supply here.

Gumilyov noted that along the road there are often markets where they sell bundles of brushwood. The forest was cut down so much that at the end of the last century, fast-growing eucalyptus had to be brought here. More than once we saw new rows of eucalyptus seedlings along the roads. The afforestation campaign, led by the Department of Forestry Development and Wildlife Conservation, has become especially widespread in recent years of the fight against drought. Farmers across the country are taking forestry courses. Now people from Australia look very natural among the local flora. Those small eucalyptus trees that Gumilev drove past near Harar turned into avenues of columnar trees supporting the high sky with their green crowns.

Unfortunately, we were late for the September horse games - guks, reminiscent of a cavalry battle. First, individual daredevils rush forward and throw darts at the enemy, who deflect them with a shield. But now the battle becomes general: horsemen gallop towards each other, darts whistle in the air; sometimes they click on shields, sometimes they knock riders to the ground. Darts have no tips, but can penetrate a shield and even injure.

The poet Gumilyov admired “the majestic simplicity of the Abyssinian songs and the gentle lyricism of the Gallic ones” and, no doubt, wrote down a lot of them, since he refers in his diary to an appendix (it has not yet been found), in which the text is given in Russian transcription, and gives as an example the Gallic a song where “Kharar, which is higher than the land of the Danakils...” is sung.

...Leaving the car in the square near the ancient gates - you can’t get everywhere in the old city - I decided to wander through the narrow streets, squeezed by houses and high walls made of large stones. Voices, women's laughter and the splashing of water were heard behind them. In the dwellings, hidden from idle gaze, a different life was hidden, incomprehensible to prying eyes. Through the slightly open narrow gates, fragments of everyday scenes flashed in the tiny courtyards: a girl threw colored linens and carpets onto ropes; a cauldron of spicy brew was smoking on the hearth; the children were pulling a donkey with a huge load. Heavy wooden doors led into the mysterious interior of silent houses. Having turned the corner of a noticeable house with a turret, I found myself in a tiny alley: light shadows of different leaves on the white walls, the sun blinding my eyes, the dry smell of dust, silence...

Gumilyov loved to jostle among the people in the square and bargain at markets for an old thing he liked. While his companion Sverchkov was chasing insects in the outskirts of the city - tiny red, blue, golden beauties, Gumilyov was collecting an ethnographic collection. “This hunt for things is extremely exciting,” he noted in his diary, “little by little a picture of the life of an entire people appears before one’s eyes - and the impatience to see more and more of it grows.” Gumilyov dug into the nooks and crannies in search of old things, without waiting for an invitation, he went into houses to look at the utensils, trying to understand the purpose of this or that item. Once I bought a spinning machine. To understand its structure, I also had to understand the loom.