Natural mystic in Shashamane
Publication date : Friday, January 28th 2011 - 13 124 views Natural mystic in Shashamane
The Rastas' Promised Land, Shashamane was made available to Africans of the diaspora by Haile Selassie, Emperor of Ethiopia. But Shashamane is also a very poor town, where the Rasta community, like the local population, has to fight to survive.
Our Belgian colleagues at reggae.be went to meet the Rastas who left everything behind to settle in Shashamane. Images and stories from a land far far away.
The place seems immediately familiar when you arrive and see the signs, written not in Amharic script but in our Western alphabet: Twelve Tribes of Israel, Ethiopian World Federation, Nyahbinghi Order... In Shashamane, the Rastas' main churches clearly dominate the public space, at least on the large plots of land the Rastas have allotted themselves over the years. "As the Emperor himself wished" they say. But this is not a valid argument with the current government. After all these years, the Rasta community has still not officially obtained the right to exist in Shashamane, and not only because the different Rasta groupings do not speak with one and the same voice...
If you consult the tourist guides, it seems that few visitors find a Promised Land in Shashamane. "Don't go there! It's a town full of thieves and swindlers. They only know one word of English and it's 'Money'. You'd have to be mad to go to Shashamane and even madder to want to stay there".
And yet we want to be there. Last week, in Addis Ababa, we looked for the roots of Ras Tafari, the emperor. In Shashamane, we hope to capture an image, however fleeting, of the dream of rastafari, the movement. What has become of the Rastas who joined words to deeds and who actually "returned" to the motherland of Africans the world over? We also plan to tell this story in a documentary in the making, which will be called "My Ras Tafari Roots".
David, the director of this film, was also inspired by the Rastas. It is what motivated him to dig into his family's history and to visit the homeland of his mother and grandmother, who is said to have been an illegitimate daughter of Haile Selassie. Could it be that they honour his great-grandfather, as the family secret suggests? Whether it is true or false, David is at home here, in a community where he is connected with the people, not only on a musical and spiritual level but also on a family level.
 Taxi-buses and Bajajs
We drove for almost 4 hours, far from the bustle and the polluted atmosphere of Addis Ababa, through a landscape of African grassland. Along this wide asphalt road, which runs straight, always straight ahead, towns and villages line up: Mojo, Alemtena, Meka, Abossa, Bulbula, Kuyira... The road has brought them closer to modernity, or at least to what we understand by modernity in our Western conception. Buses and lorries go up and down the road, pushing a whole swarm of humans and animals onto the verge. Yet the goats, sheep, donkeys and cows that cross do not seem in the least frightened by the traffic rushing by. But drivers and animal keepers alike are aware of the danger and share the available space.
In built-up areas, you have to be careful of the battered blue-and-white taxi-buses and the three-wheeled "Bajajs". Bajaj is what they call this kind of Indian moped. They stop and start again wherever they please, or whenever there are people waiting for transport at the roadside. They do this at a snail's pace and no driver wants one in front of them.
Development and poverty
 It is not only the new roads that show Ethiopia is developing, something the government proclaims to saturation point on the radio, on television and on large advertising hoardings. In the city of Addis Ababa and all around it, ever more dazzling office towers, residential districts and even shopping centres are going up. Chinese and European investors are competing with each other over gigantic industrial plots, where they are also developing infrastructure for their workers. Near Lake Langano and Lake Shala, we saw signs announcing gigantic hotel and tourist complexes.
Admittedly, one must not lose sight of the horrifying poverty in which many Ethiopians still live every day, especially in the slums of the capital, but there are apparently people who nonetheless believe in this country.
The Rastas, for their part, have believed in it since the 40s and 50s. Or rather we should say: the members and sympathisers of the Ethiopian World Federation (EWF). This American organisation was created in 1937. With the blessing of the emperor in exile, some say... After the Second World War, it was the EWF that received a large plot of land from Haile Selassie, in thanks for services rendered to the Ethiopian people and to encourage all Africans of the diaspora. Had he known that the Rastas would infiltrate and then take control of most branches of the EWF (except in Jamaica), his generosity would probably not have been so royal. No, the first to settle were not Rastas, not even Jamaicans. You would have to be lucky to meet one of the first-generation Rastas, one of those men and women who moved from Kingston to Shashamane at the end of the fifties.
Report written by Jah Shakespear / Traduction : Irie Nation
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Part 2
Publication date : 01-24-2011 
On a friend's advice, we rented a room at the Zion Train Lodge, the only comfortable place to stay in town, where the Rasta flags also fly proudly. Once you leave the main road, even our 4x4 struggles to pick its way through the ruts and bumps in the sand. The further we get from the "centre", the more children, animals and carts there are on the road. In this new district, mostly Ethiopian, the signs for the Zion Train Lodge are the only clue to the presence of Shashamane's Rasta community.
The sight that greets us at the gates of the lodge is striking: they are painted with brightly coloured portraits of the Emperor and his wife, both in religious dress. The guard lets us drive in and the place delights us the moment we step inside. The Zion Train Lodge is an oasis of calm, exotic plants and liberated Rasta vibes beyond anything we would have dared dream of. So this is how the ideal rastaman lives, surrounded by photos and posters of Haile Selassie, Marcus Garvey and Bob Marley, and by Ethiopian flags with the Lion of Judah and the red, gold and green colours.
Ital food
 In the little kitchen, they are preparing ital food: rice with vegetables, banana fritters, fresh fruit juices and soya milk. An old Rasta crumbles his ganja and fills a chalice... Even the rooms of this place match perfectly the image I have of the ideal rastaman's home. Handmade bamboo furniture with wicker finishes and other natural materials, and sheets, tablecloths and decorations in African patterns. We sleep in one of the three large tukuls (the genuine Ethiopian model, but with enough comfort to suit a Western traveller who isn't too adventurous). Here too, the three rooms in the small central building are finely appointed.
Sandrine proves an exceptional hostess and a genuine Rasta queen. With a Jamaican cook, she makes sure guests can eat or drink at any hour of the day. She also feeds her visitors with her experience and her stories, and with the spirit of Rastafari. It is a spirit that she, her husband Alex and their children feel and try to apply to daily life. At table, she follows her husband in a prayer to the Emperor, a prayer mixing French and Amharic. Rastafari.
"Be careful of the hyenas when you come back tonight!" Sandrine tells us. At first I thought it was a joke. After all the stories of thieves and murderers you read in the tourist guides, I thought she wanted to pile it on: hyenas as well! But no, she was serious. At night, hyenas prowl around this paradise, looking for the bodies of dogs, cats or anything else, as long as it is dead meat.
"Can't we take a taxi?"
"There are no taxis here. There are only bajajs. And I doubt they would venture into the 12 Tribes area at night."
David is suddenly full of doubt. He doesn't like animals, least of all dogs, so let's not even mention hyenas. I whisper to him: "We'll find a solution. How many times in your life will you get the chance to go to a Twelve Tribes of Israel session in the Promised Land? A few carrion-eaters surely won't hold you back?"
Twelve Tribes
I find all of this very mystical. We have barely arrived in Shashamane and we are already invited to a party in the Yard of the 12 Tribes, the Rasta organisation closest to my heart (and to most reggae fans of my generation). Around eight o'clock, Sandrine takes us in the lodge's little bus. That is, it must be said, one more of the small touches that make this place so pleasant. We even have a 4x4 with a driver at our disposal, but we already know we won't need it in the coming days.
As everywhere in town, it is dark in the Twelve Tribes yard. Tonight Ethiopia is celebrating the New Year (2003), but you wouldn't notice it anywhere in town. This darkness reminds me of Jamaica, of the Ol' Hits Dance in Port Antonio and other yards where primitive sound systems were set up... Or is it the music that brings these old memories back to me? Those sounds from long ago, spinning as we arrive. In the end, the whole setting is designed in pure Jamaican style. There is a half-open building, divided into three parts. On the left, the deejays' corner. They use turntables and a laptop. An MC keeps the crowd going over vintage tunes. His accent doesn't quite sound Jamaican. In Shashamane, Jamaican patois is the second language, after Ethiopian. Otherwise, it is a creolised English that you mostly hear in Ethiopia. Most of the inhabitants of Shashamane know only one word of English: "Money", or at best "Give me money". On that at least, the tourist guide was right!
But we are not among native Ethiopians here. The men (and the few women) present come from Great Britain, Jamaica or other Caribbean islands. For them, patois is a mother tongue, so that is what they speak here, in Africa. They don't dance but "skank": with controlled, measured movements... Just as I saw it done in films and documentaries from the late 70s. And yes, the Rastas here belong to that generation or are older still. Men with grey beards and old caps. Rasta People.
Dancing, spliffs and Ludi
In the middle room, people dance between the speakers. The sound is not perfect, nor particularly loud, but that doesn't spoil the pleasure one bit. The selection is good enough to hold the dancers' full attention. Sugar Minott, Treasure Isle, Harry Mudie, etc... It's not that there are masses of people on the concrete dancefloor, but there is always movement. There is always one old-timer or another reacting to one of his favourite tunes.
In the left-hand part of the building, a sad-faced Jamaican sells drinks, plates of rice and peas, fish, stew, "cow foot" and cakes. Five men sit around a table playing Ludi, the Caribbean dominoes game. Here and there, spliffs are lit. You would really think you were in Jamaica.
My travelling companions, David and Jah Rebel, can't stop dancing. I save a little of my energy, but it is impossible for me to stay still with this music, my music, the classic reggae and rocksteady I grew up with. At that moment, I think "So here we are... In the middle of Ethiopia, the Horn of Africa, thousands of kilometres from Europe and even further from Jamaica... And yet we are at one with our surroundings and with the people who live here." At least, that is what I would like to believe, after all these years of wonder and amazement at the richness of reggae and of personal investment in Rastafari culture.
A drunk young guy pulls us out of our reverie. He then goes off to pick a fight with someone else, before others try to calm him down. He goes to fetch a knife and carries on shouting all his frustrations, even in our direction. Reality check. In Jamaica, we would probably have heard gunshots by now. Here, the small community manages to cool his temper. They should ban alcohol, anyway....
A bajaj has been waiting for us all evening. It takes us all back to the Zion Train Lodge. In two trips, since you can only fit 3 people at a time on this motorised tricycle. In the end we didn't meet a single hyena. Around midnight, we smoke one last spliff, a pure one since we have run out of cigarettes... Happy New Year!
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Part 3
Publication date : 01-24-2011
The next morning, Sandrine serves us a delicious breakfast: omelettes with peppers, home-made jams, chocolate spread and even pancakes. After the Twelve Tribes, today we want to visit the Nyahbinghi Order, that other ancient Rasta house, where the upbringing is stricter and the aversion to the white oppressor more virulent, and which is therefore more demanding in religious and intellectual terms (even though religion and intellect don't go together, some will say).
Last week, the Nyahbinghi land was almost seized. The local authorities wanted to build a road across it, and the organisation could not formally prove that it owns the land. Perhaps that is why the atmosphere is so heavy around the tabernacle and the little museum...
Tomas, our young guide, wants to play it super cool. I know this attitude, that of the Kingston rude boys, of gangsta rap... It is a mixture of nonchalant arrogance towards everything rich and white and uncertainty about his own status. Tomas has a Jamaican father and an Ethiopian mother. He is a descendant of the second (or third) generation, straddling Jamaican and African culture. His Jamaican patois is touching.
 "No weapons, drugs, alcohol or cigarettes."
He first takes us to the little museum. A sign hangs at the entrance: "Welcome to His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie Moral Theocratical Churchical Order of Nyahbinghi Reign (Nyabinghi Tabernacle Shashamane)" In 1992, the Nyahbinghi erected a tabernacle for the Emperor's hundredth birthday. I still remember buying a voucher at the time, in support of this project. The sign states:
"All persons entering these premises are asked to respect the following points:
Men must uncover their heads.
Women must keep their heads covered."
To me, these are silly religious prescriptions. The old Rastas in Jamaica never asked me to do that.
"Women wearing trousers may not enter. Clothes that reveal the body are forbidden. Women may not enter during their menstrual period (for a duration of 7 days)"
I would rather have expected this sort of prohibition from the Boboshantis. To me, the ideal rastaman respects his woman, regardless of her dress or her hormonal state. A respectable woman will, besides, know how to dress and behave. In these matters, I don't think they have any lessons to learn from men.
"No weapons, drugs, alcohol or cigarettes."
I imagine ganja is not a drug.
"The use of flesh or any other harmful food is forbidden."
To me, this law could be imported back home too.
"No offensive behaviour"
We are not that sort of people.
 Inside, Tomas guides us through a jumble of photos, cut-outs and imperial regalia. He murmurs a few names and a few platitudes. Then he asks us for a small contribution to the centre. It is a tiny little museum of nothing much, where the few visitors can learn nothing about Rastafari. But in an adjoining room, I spot an old man. A Rasta of great age, unmistakably a Jamaican. "That's Papa Rupie," Tomas tells us. I ask him whether I can talk to him. The youngster approaches Papa Rupie humbly and respectfully and passes on my request... I am allowed to enter.
Papa Rupie is 78. As a child, he remembers reading in the newspaper that the Emperor of Ethiopia was fighting courageously against the Italian occupier. That is how Rastafari was revealed to him. And he has remained faithful to that vision all his life. He saved for decades and finally came to live here in 2000. Papa Rupie is spending his old age in Shashamane. Could a deeply devout old rastaman imagine a finer retirement?
Nyahbinghi Session
We then went to the tabernacle, a sort of altar under a round roof raised on posts. A sign says "No photos"... Well, that is certainly not how they will attract the attention of the rest of the world... A pity, because beautiful ceremonies and moving rituals are held there. For a moment I wonder whether what is going on is a show for tourists. But no, it really is a nyahbinghi session, broken up by pauses. It is Ras Mweya Masimba who orders the fire to be lit in the centre of the temple (as well as in the chalice). He recites, chants and improvises very profound Rasta texts and orthodox religious texts. He does so with the ease, the assurance and the convincing air of true Rasta philosophers like Mutabaruka or Brother Sam Clayton of the Mystic Revelations of Rastafari. In my whole life I have met only a few Rastas of this calibre, and I recognise them at once.
So I stay seated, fascinated, and listen. Jah Rebel is completely carried away by the nyahbinghi. Selassie, he murmurs along with them. Rastafari. Could this be his natural habitat? There is also another white man among the Rastas, with a big red beard and his dreadlocks tied up in a turban. And who is that woman with the two children? A white Rasta queen, who isn't afraid to pick up one of the drums and add a little colour to the monotonous rhythm of the drumming. Spontaneously, other people join in, whenever they feel inspired. This is how I have always imagined a nyahbinghi session, with no clearly marked beginning or end, without precise rules or instructions.
Papa Rupie himself makes the effort to lift his colossal frame out of his seat and make his way to the tabernacle, in full dress: a long white robe, a red, green and gold turban and gold jewellery. He sings loud and clear, honours Jah and pays tribute to Ras Tafari. True Rastaman. Half an hour later, just as dignified as when he came, he goes back to his room.
Another Rasta, younger, with fine dreads and dressed in white linen, whispers in my ear that he will wait for us later at his Banana Art Gallery. This must be Ras Hailu, one of the few migrants who has so far managed to secure a place in the tourist guides. Tomas had appointed himself our guide for the whole day. We agree with him on a fee of 200 birr, a little under 10 euros. From experience, I know that a guide is unavoidable in a country like Ethiopia (or Jamaica), if you want to visit a town or region in a short time and without too many worries. Tomas is not really a super guide; he is not the kind who will reveal all the secrets of Shashamane to you. He speaks far too little English for that, in any case. But I trust him. I will even manage to loosen him up, later, in the streets of the Jamaican quarter, and to coax a big smile out of him.
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Part 4
Publication date : 01-24-2011
 On the road to Ras Hailu's, we meet a friend of Tomas, a veteran, Ras Asher. He is not the archetypal Rasta, not a Jamaican with dreadlocks, but a Briton, very dark-skinned, who in the late 90s jumped in his car and drove all the way to Ethiopia, to the Promised Land. He tells us, "When I crossed the border, coming from Sudan, I immediately felt liberated. I knew I had arrived home."
In Ras Hailu's Banana Art Gallery, Jah Rebel spends another long while. The rastaman greets us in a detached manner, probably the way he greets most visitors. But in a few sentences, Jah Rebel manages to break the ice. "Are you the Belgian collector on eBay?" asks Ras Hailu in astonishment. They are two men who belong to different worlds but share a common passion: His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie I. His medals, his coins, his portraits. They quickly launch into a lively conversation about Ras Hailu's collection, most of which is displayed here and is also for sale. Ras Hailu's own artworks are exhibited on the walls of the gallery. He has himself labelled this art "banana art". They are expressive collages made from pieces of painted banana leaves. A little rudimentary, but the scenes have something real about them and the artist's style gives an effect of organic strength. I decided to buy a pair of them from him.
 Ras Hailu shows us a representation of an icon from Saint Catherine's, Christos Pantocrator (Christ, Creator of the Universe), which was found near Mount Sinai and dates from the third century AD. Its likeness to the earliest portraits of Haile Selassie is truly striking... Or is it the fruit of our imagination, are we letting ourselves get giddy on this Rasta experience we are living?
Brother Moses
Ras Asher then took us to Brother Moses (Anthony Nevers), one of the second wave of arrivals, who settled here in 1976. He was for a long time president of the local branch of the 12 Tribes and is now active in teaching and community work. A qualified welder and carpenter, he runs courses for young people through his own organisation: the Ethio-Caribbean International Friendship Association. The very name of this foundation says it all: Brother Moses wants to reach the Caribbean community and the Ethiopian community alike. "Rasta is synonymous with unity," he tells us. "We did not come to look after our own destiny alone, but to work together for the progress of this country."
Brother Moses takes the time to talk to us. First he wants to know which month we were born in, so he can tell us which of the twelve tribes we belong to. According to him, this affiliation determines certain of our character traits... and it turns out he is absolutely right! This brother would be, in my perfect world, on my own Promised Land, the prototype of the rastaman. The Rasta who matches in every respect the ideal image that reggae has created over all these years. Friendly, self-assured and humble. He also has a good knowledge of society, politics and history and is well informed. He is very active in his community, ready to lend a hand and practical-minded. For Brother Moses, the Promised Land is not something already won but something you still have to work for every day.
 During our meeting with him, a heavy tropical downpour falls. We are at the end of the rainy season and have yet to have a single dry day. The big drops fall heavily on the corrugated iron roof. Brother Moses rolls a spliff and offers us a glass of an alcoholic drink made from roots, which he brewed himself. On the television, Obama is commemorating 9/11. Brother Moses watches Press TV, an English-language Iranian channel that broadcasts 24 hours a day. It is his main source of news. But he also sometimes watches BBC World. Don't think for a moment that these people are ignorant of what is happening in the world or that they are fleeing reality. Perhaps, because of their harsh living conditions in Shashamane, they are even closer to reality, to the very roots of existence.
That evening, we are invited to a party again, in Sister Joanne's Yard. She landed in Shashamane more than a quarter of a century ago and is one of the most respected women (and cooks) in the Jamaican community. Her son is celebrating his 21st birthday. That is also the average age of most of the guests at his party, mostly young boys and girls of Jamaican origin. The DJ plays mainly dancehall and Caribbean R&B. Not really my cup of tea, but I am still glad to see that side of life in the Promised Land as well: the life of the young. As guests from a rich country, we buy a few rounds for the other guests. Tomas and his friends have a great evening, the beer flows freely, as at a party back home or in Jamaica... Not everyone lives on a cloud of ganja....
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Part 5
Publication date : 01-24-2011
In Ethiopia, Sunday is also the Lord's day, and so people go to Mass. The last religious event I had attended in Ethiopia, in Axum, had been so moving that I decided to go with Alex to church. So I got out of bed at dawn and, without breakfast, took the little bus along the bumpy road to the other side of town. On that side, begging hands reach out and curious looks follow me: for the first time, we have stepped out of the bubble of comfort that Rastafari had formed around us until now. This is not a party or a nyahbinghi session but a service of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. It is the feast day of John the Baptist, so the celebration is bigger and more colourful than usual.
 The little church is the holy of holies. Only the high priests may enter. The thousands of believers stay outside, all around the church, gazing devoutly at the building. Some even have their foreheads against the wall, as if to be as close as possible to this sanctuary and find redemption. All the women wear a large white shawl, roughly woven and edged with fine lines of colour. Most of the men also wear a white scarf over their shoulders. Some proudly carry a handmade parasol...
Two hours of sermon
For the first two hours (!), we listen to a priest's sermon. His voice, amplified by a rudimentary sound system, reaches us shrill and distorted. I understand nothing, but little by little I am more and more captivated by the attention and devotion shown by the congregation. From time to time a mobile phone rings or a spluttering bajaj makes its way through the crowd. Begging monks and sellers of candle wicks and crucifixes discreetly approach people. I buy myself a big, long wick and light it with my lighter. A little girl signals that she wants to share my flame. I see that her mother is encouraging her. She holds her wick against mine and, at that moment, I felt very closely bound to these people. I listen to these texts which, just like them, I barely understand (they are recited in Ge'ez, the Latin of the Church in Ethiopia), but we all feel the same spiritual energy. Instead of distancing myself from this collective religious trance, as you would expect from a Western intellectual, I let myself be carried away. Instead of simply dismissing this ceremony as superstition or religious blindness, I recognise an original force and a group feeling that we find back home only at rock concerts and other mass events, and then in a much watered-down form.
 Little by little, impulsive and spontaneous reactions emerge from the crowd. Someone voices his approval out loud. A few women let out a long, shrill cry, that ululation typical of African and Arab countries. The sermon begins to find a certain rhythm. A second priest takes over. People clap their hands. In all of this there seems to be no organisation or melody, and yet it is indeed music that emerges. Perhaps even the first music, like that which Saint Yared made in Ethiopia so long ago. The most important words are emphasised and the main phrases are declaimed to a rhythm. A man confirms and accentuates the cadence on a big drum. A dozen male and female dancers start a slow, measured dance. A man seizes the microphone and strikes up songs in a call-and-response pattern, typically African, also typical of slave songs, typically nyahbinghi.
Then the tabot is brought out (a Ge'ez word for a copy of the Tablets of the Law on which the Ten Commandments were written; it is the holiest object in the church). The crowd reacts with shouts, songs and applause and begins to move. Alex tells me that we must now all walk twice around the church. Quite docile, in the midst of all these exuberant Ethiopians, I join the movement. We all glide in the wake of the tabot, towards the promised land. Not really that of the Rastas; the journey we are making now refers to something much older, much more original and truer. In the middle of this procession, I feel in my element, I feel far more bound to my Christian roots than at any religious event I have seen in all my life. I confess that if I had to embrace a religion, it would be the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. Remember that Bob Marley, too, in the last months of his life, converted to this religion.
Priest Paul and the Boboshantis
Back at the Zion Train Lodge, we had a solid breakfast. Ras Asher still wanted to introduce us to someone. This is Priest Paul, the head of the Boboshanti, the youngest and also the most controversial Rasta community. "If there is one man who can represent us before the authorities, it is Priest Paul," says Asher. "Of all the Rasta leaders, he is the one with the most authority within his community."
That is indeed how it seems... We run into him by chance near Ras Hailu's place. There has been a burglary at the house of David, the Flemish migrant who died here a few years ago in suspicious circumstances. Paul is investigating the theft and trying to clear up the situation with a few of his close associates. The atmosphere is tense. Paul keeps casting inquisitive glances around the surroundings...
Asher introduces us and I start talking straight away. Like most Boboshantis, Paul addresses me in a wary and distant way, and at times even arrogantly. He reminds me of Sizzla, the first bobo I interviewed back then, my first encounter with this new style of rastaman. What has become of the love and natural kindness of the Rastas? Why am I being treated like a doormat, when for years I have always defended the Rastas? And let's not even talk about the Boboshantis' new Trinity. Just as people were beginning to understand what Rastafari is. And as we were trying to explain to them the line of continuity between the original Trinity of the Bible and Haile Selassie, the bobos suddenly turn up with their new mascot. As if their Prince Emmanuel could be put in the same category as Jesus Christ or Haile Selassie.
I set all these thoughts aside without difficulty to get to know Priest Paul. Would he like to take part in our documentary? His answer is direct: "No, not unless there is something in it for the community". That I understand perfectly. We are not the first film crew to come through here, and I can imagine that the local population rarely finds any benefit in it. Especially considering the negative vibes that often come across in TV footage.
Priest Paul explains, surprisingly: "We don't need positive promotion. We already have a good image all over the world. What we need is a concrete contribution to the development of our community." I promise that we will develop a plan to bring our support to the whole Rasta community of Shashamane.
'I will get back to you in a few months.'
'To the I. Not you.'
'To the I, excuse me.'
David and Rebel don't think there is anything serious about it, but personally this Priest Paul intrigues me. I would like to have an in-depth conversation with him to discuss Rastafari, in complete freedom, but I fear he is not really open to the idea. After all, I am only a white oppressor and the Boboshantis glorify black supremacy. My vision will always be underrated and of lesser value. It's a pity, because Priest Paul is a strong personality, as Ras Asher said, a man who takes on his responsibilities in Shashamane head-on and who urges the Rasta community towards discipline and work.
Brother Mweyu
 Fortunately, another interesting interlocutor is waiting for us at Ras Hailu's. We have come to collect our souvenirs: Jah Rebel his medals, me my "banana arts". Ras Hailu is playing chess with Brother Mweyu. He had already noticed us yesterday, during the nyahbinghi. I tell him that he recited a very powerful text there. I barely have time to introduce myself (journalist, writing a book, been to Jamaica: over the years I have learned to say it all in one breath and to dispel the mistrust of most Rastas) before he assails me with very complex questions. What is my concept of Rastafari? Do I think the people here are poor, or are they consciously distancing themselves from consumer society? And why don't I convert to the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, if I feel so attached to it?
I answer: "Because there is a big difference between you and me: you received this belief in your family, your home. For you, this faith represents an unshakeable certainty. I am a rational Westerner, who will never be able to give himself body and soul to a religion, whichever it may be. Somewhere along the way, we lost our unconditional belief in Jah. "
Ras Mweydu is a man I like. He is understanding, alert, critical and curious. I have had this kind of conversation before in Kingston with Brother Sam, the man who kept the holy flame of the Mystic Revelations of Rastafari alive after the death of Count Ossie and who also visited Haile Selassie in 1963.
That was our last meeting in Shashamane. We have to go back to Addis Ababa. We take leave of Ras Asher, Alex and Sandrine and, in our minds, of the whole community, of all the brave Rastas who have put their words into action and come to live here. Rastaman for real.
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