Zebachew invited me to go with him to an azmari beat or traditional Ethiopian music house. I knew even before I came to Ethiopia that one night would find me at an azmari beat. It’s one of those traditional things that is mentioned in every book. For that reason I wasn’t exactly excited about it. I suspected that it might be at one extreme a drunken mess, and very little appeals to me less than an evening with drunken faces pushed in mine, shouting incomprehensibly. At the other extreme I thought it might be a dull show kept on in a desperate attempt to ‘preserve the culture.’

I also felt sure any number of other things could and surely would go wrong in the murky waters of cross-cultural miscommunication. Azmari beats get going fairly late and Zebachew had suggested we leave at 4:00 (10:00 p.m. ferenji time). He assured me it was “near.” But I knew from experience that that could mean anything. I pictured taking a local bus for two hours to the middle of nowhere, watching a couple of traditional dances, sterilized and modernized for foreign visitors, and then being stuck there, Zebachew passed out in a pool of draft beer, no way to get home and being very, very tired.

I could not have been more wrong.

At about 3:30 I emerged from my room to have some dinner. The available dishes from the kitchen were all unfamiliar to me and I simply agreed to one at random with the all-purpose “eshi” meaning yes, or sure, or that’s okay, or I agree. The dish I got was certainly some part of a sheep, chopped up and heavily spiced. The meat was extremely tough and chewy, smooth on one side and rather bristly on the other. Which part I wasn’t exactly sure, but some chunk of the digestive tract seemed a pretty good bet.

Zebachew had changed into his ‘stepping out’ clothes and inwardly I groaned at the excitement everyone was showing towards ‘Douglas’ big night out.’ I’m not my best at dancing events and parties and did not relish being forced into the limelight of this one.

The streets were fairly quiet. The local kids, shoe shine boys and free lance ‘zebenya’ shouted my name. The early shift of hookers was out in tight jeans and long flowing blond hair, which I can only hope and pray were cheap wigs and not something they’d actually done to their own hair.

My hopes rose a little bit when we crossed the street without stopping a bus or a taxi. Could it be that ‘near’ actually meant near, as in walking distance? We walked north through a couple of dark streets, past several small hotels and bars full of life. A pack of fifteen dogs sprinted out of the darkness, broke around us, regrouped on the other side and disappeared.

We crossed one more street and on the other side stopped in front of the azmari beat. From the outside it looked like all the other buildings around us. As we walked up the short sidewalk and approached the glass doors I began to hear strains of what had to be acoustic, live music. There was no distortion, heavy bass or savage treble.

Zebachew pushed open one of the glass doors and it bumped into the behind of one of the women who worked there as a performer. I mention that only because the entire evening some of the women stood there and each new customer occassioned another bump from behind. It never occurred to anyone to stand somewhere else.

The layout of the place was simple. There were two small areas with a bar at one side. Customers were arrayed on low stools with cushions around the walls. Zebachew and I took two stools right beside the drummer who played expertly with 3 drumsticks on 3 traditional drums called “kebero.”

A second man sang and played a stringed instrument with a bow called a ‘masenko.’ The masenko consisted of a diamond shaped wooden box as a base with a single stick about two and a half feet long. One string arched down to the base. There were no struts and he changed the tone produced by his bow with rapid and light touches of his palm and fingers. The sound produced is difficult to describe, but it and his waling, nasal voice was distinctly Arabic in origin.

He put me in mind of a wandering minstrel as he walked the length of the two rooms playing personally for each of us in turn. The beat was very rapid and the dancing involved a very distinctive movement of the shoulders, head and neck. At times it was slow and deliberate like a bird arching its neck and bobbing its head. Then it was a slide from side to side for all the world like our parody in the west of “walk like an Egyptian.”

When the music reached a crescendo the shoulders would vibrate up and down and side to side faster than the eye could follow. When men danced together it was a friendly challenge as they drove each other to greater heights of athleticism. When men danced with women it was a courtship but still a challenge, a wooing, a display of power, energy, and sensuality. An invitation.

The women and men wore the traditional dress, which was a long flowing white cotton material that draped over the body.

The songs they played were well known to everyone and they joined in on the chorus in a call and response pattern. Clapping was kept up throughout to urge the dancers on.

The highlight of the evening, and what everyone was waiting for was when the owner of the azmari beat and nationally known performer Manalbosh Dilbou got up to sing and dance. Her voice broke through clear and hypnotic. As she sang “Asa Belobelo” she ran from room to room to room in a sweeping circle around and around with her arms outstretched, sweeping past with small rapid steps till the entire room was exploding with frenetic dance. The men had hands on hips, their jackets shrugged off their shoulders and down around their elbows, their shoulders vibrating. The women danced the same except their breasts were thrust forward, the challenge to the men unmistakeable. From everyone came a sharp and loud hiss as air was shot out through clenched teeth. Feet stamped on the ground in time with the beat till you thought the room couldn’t possibly contain any more energy. Then the song was over leaving you drained and somewhat amazed at what had just happened.

What surprised me most was the easy way in which all this energy was released. There was none of the tension, desperation or grim determination that you get in a western dance club. Everyone danced here and they did so with ecstatic, unembarassed smiles of joy on their faces. There were no awkward moments and the dancers faced each other with total openness. They laid themselves bare and everyone gave back as much as they received.

My own pathetic shoulder shrugs and head bobs were not the only ways I was inadequate to this scene. I danced with Zebachew at first, but then with the women. I’d find them opposite me, their bodies moving, their eyes locked on mine and the emotion pouring from them was like staring directly at the sun. It was too much and I wanted to turn away before I got burned.

In a way I was relieved when Zebachew indicated it was time to leave. This sort of experience needs to be absorbed in small doses. But back in my room I felt wide awake and a bit lost now that all that energy was gone. The faces of those women took a long time to fade from my memory.

Tags: Asa Belobelo, Ethiopia, Ethiopia Bike Trip, mine, music