Ethiopian Excursion: The Underground Religion of Lalibela

Travel Weekly editor-at-large Arnie Weissmann continues his journeys through Ethiopia. Following is the sixth in an eight-part series telling the tales of his travels and travails:

Ditches were being dug along every road I walked in Lalibela. Men worked in pairs, one resting while the other put his foot to the shovel under an intense afternoon sun.

They were preparing the ground for telecommunications cables that would provide residents with the luxury of direct-dial phones. For the past two years, operators have manually patched telephone connections, and before that, only radio communications linked Lalibela to Ethiopia's capital, Addis Ababa.

Although much of the world -- even the developing world -- is moving directly to wireless solutions rather than laying cables, it seemed somehow fitting that Lalibela was once again seeking to advance itself by digging.

In the late 12th and early 13th centuries, Lalibelans carved 11 monolithic underground churches out of the bedrock below the dusty, dry surface of the town. The churches were the inspiration of a King Lalibela, who believed that Christ had visited him in a dream and told him to build a new Jerusalem in this remote, arid outpost. The results are astounding; in my estimation, these are the most exciting historical attractions in Africa outside of Egypt.

The churches aren't cathedrals -- some are little more than chapels in size. Since they're below ground level, they're surrounded by trenches 30 or so feet deep, and several are connected by a series of low tunnels. The interiors of a few have carved decorations, some others have the remains of frescoes painted on their walls. Pilgrims sleep in nooks cut into the trench walls that face the churches.

For most visitors, touring the churches is like touring archeological ruins. You pay an entrance fee and hire a "shoe guard" and a guide to bring you from site to site.

The tourist ritual in each church is similar: After looking around a bit, you place a little money in the priest's donation bowl (not to be confused with the church's donation box) and he'll bring out the church's unique cross, mounted on a staff. If satisfied with the amount of the donation, he may also lift the curtain of the "Holy of Holies" sanctuary to reveal icons for you to inspect (from a distance -- no one is allowed to enter the sanctuary itself but priests). One church, Beta Debreseena Michel Gogatha, is built over the grave of King Lalibela himself, and the priest there will scoop up some dirt, alleged to have healing powers, from around the crypt. Believers mix it with water and drink it.

There are a few points of interest one passes while moving from church to church. The guides point out the "River Jordan," a wet-weather creek that cuts through town and supplies "holy water" for immersion tanks. Outside the Church of St. George, a collection of well-preserved human skeletons and bones (some with the skin still preserved) are on display in a niche in the trench wall. These are said to be the remains of pilgrims who had been baptized in the holy water 700 years ago.

Since each church had a priest, I asked my local guide, Mr. Steven, whether services were also held at the churches. He said yes, and I asked if I might attend one.

"Tomorrow morning is the Celebration of St. Mary," he said. "Many people will come."

I arranged to meet him there at 6 a.m.

I went to bed early that night but slept badly -- a folkloric show at the hotel's restaurant played until 10:30, and the sound seemed to funnel into my room. Mosquitoes invaded as well (it was bad enough there were no screens on the windows, but the windows themselves wouldn't close). I'm not sure when I finally drifted off, but it wasn't for very long: The internal clock in a rooster below my window must have been mis-set, and he started crowing at 2.a.m., about five hours before dawn.

It was still dark when I walked down to the church site, but my mood lightened completely -- there were no clouds or moon up above and the electricity in town was still off. From an altitude of 7,500 feet, I looked up at a brilliant sky full of stars.

My lack of sleep also put me in a perfect state to observe the otherworldly atmosphere at the celebration in and around Beta St. Miriam, the subterranean church dedicated to Mary.

Unlike the day before, there was no admission fee, no other tourists, no shoe guards. The church was almost full; everyone except myself and Mr. Steven was wrapped in white cloth. The interior of the church was lit by a bare florescent tube, candles and a contemporary print of Mary and Child framed by flashing Christmas lights. The priest's chanting was amplified by a small speaker.

There was a lot of action in the trench surrounding the church. A priest and some deacons were doing a call-and-response chant below a window that King Lalibela had used to issue proclamations.

Mr. Steven provided background on the cast of characters: Those with round turbans and wearing black beneath their white robes were high priests. Those in round turbans but with no black clothing were "second priests." And those with no black clothing and no turbans were deacons.

At about that time a most wonderful thing happened. My camera ran out of film. Having no more film changed my attitude instantly: Rather than look for images, shoot them and then look for other images, I could observe the scene differently. A little less on-the-job, a little more here-and-now.

The chants were sung in "ge'ez," the ancient language of the church. The priests and deacons faced each other in two rows, leaning on shoulder-high prayer sticks while rocking and clapping rhythm instruments. Between the priests and the deacons were two young boys playing large wooden, two-headed drums. One head, the larger, was the "bass" side and was used to lay down a simple beat, while more complex rhythms were played on the smaller end.

As the stars began to fade from the sky, the trench was getting crowded, and most of those arriving were women. The monthly celebration honoring Mary was very popular with women ("You know St. Mary, the women they love," said Mr. Steven.) Some sat quietly reading Bibles, other stood along the walls.

High atop a trench wall near the northwest corner, a deacon wearing a purple crown with a cross on the crest was shaded by a large red, yellow and green umbrella held by a priest; a young boy on the deacon's right clutched his robe. A huge pink, green and white banner was unfurled at their feet, reaching all the way to the bottom of the trench. The boy began mimicking the posture of the deacon and the priest; someone propped a large, framed painting of Madonna and Child up against the deacon, and the priest shifted the umbrella to shade it. In a minute, the deacon would begin teaching lessons about Mary.

Below, a red cloth spread out over the bedrock floor of the trench was slowly being covered with gifts for the church: sticks of incense, tufts of cotton to be used as wicks for oil lamps, candles, coins, wheat for making holy bread, chick peas.

Off to the side, a woman raised bowls of wheat and poured them out slowly, separating the chaff. Holy bread, hot and fresh from the oven, would be distributed when the service ended at around 9 a.m.

I couldn't stay until then -- I had to catch a plane. As we reached the top of the trench again, we saw a large group of women, praying, rocking and chanting. These, Mr. Steven explained, were women who were either menstruating or had engaged in sex the night before, and were not "clean" enough to go below.

These women, temporarily outcasts, did have some compensation. From their vantage on the high ground above the trench, they saw a sight as spiritually moving and awe-inspiring as what takes place below: the reds, yellows, purples and oranges of the sunrise over the dry canyonlands surrounding the city.

Walking back to the hotel, I had an epiphany of sorts. The day before, I had been struck by a sense of absurdity -- what kind of mad delusion would make anyone think that this dusty void, of all places on earth, would be the new Jerusalem? But now it no longer seemed surprising to think that King Lalibela looked around and saw not a wasteland, but a holy land.

Because you must remove your shoes when entering a church, the shoe guard is required to ensure that no one makes off with your shoes while you're inside.

However, as only tourists can easily afford the $10 entrance fee, and it strikes one as unlikely they'll make off with one another's shoes, the shoe guard job seems a bit of a scam. Still, it's hard to begrudge the creation of any jobs in a nation with such high unemployment. 

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Be sure to check back Monday, July 30, where in his next installment, Arnie will visit with a resident Rastafarian.

For the complete archive of Arnie's Adventures in Ethiopia, click here.