UNDERGRADUATE PAGE
How I Never Met the Shiftas
By ALAN BIRD (Selwyn College, Cambridge) SITTING in the local hairdresser's the other day, I picked up the newspapers and began to read. Most of them, as usual, were about a fortnight old, but one exception informed me that British troops had completed a major operation against the shiftas in Eritrea. Shiftas are thieves with no other object than stealing cattle or articles which can be sold again easily ; they also poach on the East African game-reserves around Lake Rudolf. Those in Eritrea, however, seemed to confine themselves to one- sided political activity, and I couldn't help wondering if representa- tions to the interested Power or Powers might not achieve much more than a show of British military force.
This led me to recollections of the times I met the shiftas. In 1946, in Ethiopia, they had no political prejudices. The loss of blankets, tins of food, camp-beds and clothing testified to my encounters with them. I am sure they would have taken the belong- ings of my Ethiopian servant with as much pleasure—if he had possessed anything worth their attention. They had, as it were, paid individual visits to me, but I was to meet them—or' so I believed—en masse.
It began one morning in Addis Ababa when, about six o'clock,.
I stood watching a lorry being loaded. Six Englishmen were going on a trip to the Blue Nile, and that meant four native boys—and that, as I realised, meant forty relatives who wept and moaned as we prepared to depart. They kissed each other on the cheek ; they rubbed foreheads ; they shook hands, and they wept more and more loudly. It was all very tragic, and, had I been able to understand Amharic, I am sure I should have heard some depressing forecasts of encounters with the shiftas. We were going to the gorge of the Blue Nile, a magnificent sight. Since it is the only way of crossing from the province of Shoa (with the capital of Addis Ababa) into that of Gojjam, it probably held some danger from shiftas, and the fears of boys and relatives were not without foundation.
The road there was little more than a track, and, as so often in Ethiopia, had been washed away in many places by the rains and very inadequately, if at all, repaired. Towards evening, after an uncomfortable and dusty journey, we pulled into a little village at the top of the gorge. The road was barred. However, I possessed a pass, the result of two hours' wait at the Ministry of the Interior.
A man wearing white jodhpurs, a clean white shamma, a fairly new topee, and a large fly-swish (a sign of authority) appeared and informed us that we could not pass the barrier. He would, however, find the iqarrier-keeper,. and off he went leaving his friends behind. They were joined by hens and dogs and hosts of flies. Our friend of the fly-swish arrived with a man who looked a little more official. But, no, 'he was not the barrier-keeper, only a close relative. Meanwhile, he would be grateful if I would let him see my Pass. "Isshe," I said. He scanned the paper and departed.
About a quarter of an hour later a donkey and passenger showed up on the far horizon. I caught a glimpse of an immense fly-swish.
It was indeed the barrier-keeper. He scrutinised our pass—but upside-down—and opened the barrier. Just as we began moving off he ran up to us through the clouds of flies, dust, poultry, dogs and villagers. Beware of shiftas. he said ; beware. I was beginning to feel an old friend of the shiftas. Little attention was paid to his remark, and camp was pitched. Soon night was down. Nothing can be more desolate and sad than nightfall in the tropics, but a cheerful fire and the smell of cooking dispelled the gloom.
I,had stolen a brief glance down the gorge before the light went. There was little visible other than clouds until, through a rift in them, I saw, thousands of feet down, the river, the Blue Nile itself. It was as if the earth had fallen away carrying ranges of hills, great outcrops of rock, buttresses, forests ; and all was dissolved ma purplish haze. The Blue Nile could be seen only as a faint winding thread of black. Actually it was quite wide, often swollen with muddy water, dangerous for swimmers, impossible for naviga- tion and infested with crocodiles. Later, when I descended by a road of three winding miles, I was to become aware of the intense heat,of the gorge and to see abandoned mules lying gasping in the last throes of malaria. At the moment, from some six thousand feet above, as I gazed on the Blue Nile from rocks through which it had probably worn its way, it looked remote and legendary, the source of Egyptian fertility.
The excitement of the journey and the weary travel on bad roads, together with the pleasant effects of a good dinner cooked and eaten in the open air, began to tell' on us, and it was not long before sleep reigned over the camp. It must have been two in the morning when I was woken by a hand tugging at my blankets. It was one of the boys "Rwana, iko nwivi. Shifta." At these dread words I felt like pulling the blankets over my head and, Like an ostrich, hoping that the enemy would not see me. But caution prevailed, and I was quickly conscious that my friends were awake, too. We could hear a stealthy sound near-by, a noise which seemed to be made by human beings. What was to be done ? We possessed one rather ancient sporting rifle and a collection of kitchen knives. To light a lamp would be to draw attention to ourselves, and it is well-known that the shiftas are armed. We decided to dress, and began to do so in the cold mistiness of the tropical night, when suddenly a camp-bed collapsed with a hideous creak. There was silence around the camp.
One of the boys threw a stone in the direction of the former sounds. Silence! He threw another stone! Still no response from the shiftas. Then, to our amazement, a pack of baboons flitted across the far edge of the camp. A group of about seven remained looking resentful and puzzled by the fire and our unexpected presence. One of the boys flung a stone at them, and to our horror a hail of stones came back. We dashed into the tents, shielding ourselves under the camp-beds and praying that they would not tear the camp to pieces as they often do when enraged. Suddenly the shower of stones ceased ; perhaps their ammunition had come to an end, perhaps the females and young were safely out of harm's way, perhaps they had grown tired or realised that we were innocent of evil intention. At any rate, they retreated as quickly as they had come, and much more quietly.
The boys raked the fire together and made some coffee. Already it was beginning to show light. We breathed sighs of relief. Baboons can do a lot of damage, we told ourselves. We felt lucky ; we had not encountered the shiftas after all. And so I never met the shiftas, and, what is more, I hope I never shall.
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