To an uneducated observer the traditional dance of the Amhara tribe in Ethiopia appears to be a violent and repeated dislocation of the collarbone. If the “Shoulder Dance”, as it is often called by Westerners, were not in perfect rhythm with the music, it would resemble a frantic cartoon character given too much caffeine. This resemblance is appropriate given the origin of the coffee bean to Ethiopia.
Coffee is as much a part of Ethiopian identity as their religion, and has its own ceremonies and traditions. In late February of this year, a few miles outside of Gondar, members of the Amhara tribe invited me to participate in a Coffee Ceremony. This ceremony began with the roasting of beans along with Frankincense over a small coal stove by a young woman in a white dress with bright green embroidery. She would be center of my attention throughout my meal.
Once the beans turned a reflective black color the woman walked slowly, carrying her work with her, and with an elegant twirl of her wrist, allowed each of us to inhale the smoke. After taking a deep breath my eyes met hers through the twirls of smoke and I noticed her genuine excitement to see my reaction. I realized then that all the Ethiopians present watched my reaction with anticipation. Their pride regarding this product, this smell, and this ceremony appeared in every expression. They knew that even though I had experienced iPads, 3D movies, and Disney World, I had never experienced a smell quite like this.
Though I had been enjoying my meal, fried beef strips with injira, at this point my senses were dominated by sites and smell contained within the Coffee Ceremony. Once every member of the group enjoyed a personal experience with the coffee beans mixed with frankincense, she began to grind the beans with a large pistol and mortar. After a few laborious minutes the coffee formed a coarse powder that she emptied into a black clay pot. After some time, she filtering it through horse hair and finally tipped the clay pot toward its spout to release a dark brown stream of liquid into small cups with a continuous flow that did not halt between cups. In a singular steady pour she filled about twenty ceramic cups, and these were delivered to an expectant crowd.
Though fully entranced, I, along with other members of my group, had some reservations about actually drinking the stuff. “What will this do to my stomach?” became a question that, if not spoken aloud, appeared in the eyes of every westerner in the room.
I am not a coffee drinker. In fact, I tend to avoid all drinks served warm or hot, and even avoid coffee flavored ice-cream. I had not had Ethiopian Coffee though, and I certainly never ritualized my previous attempts. So, after enjoying the aroma for a minute longer I took a sip. It became immediately clear that my fears were unfounded. The bitter acidity I attributed to coffee failed to reveal itself during any point of my experience. The flavor was dense, but the liquid itself appeared light in my mouth. The nervous feeling present in my stomach moments earlier became soothed by the object that had borne it.
This drink could not be taken in a to-go cup. Coffee is not something to be enjoyed in solitude or on your way to something else in Ethiopia. The community and the experience become part of the drink. The flavor of this coffee could not be reduced to simply ‘taste’ or ‘smell’ because it took over my entire consciousness. It tasted like the village, containing its camaraderie, traditions, and pride.
Pride is a word mentioned often by the Ethiopians I met. They are the only African nation to avoid colonization by European powers and they have a Judeo-Christian heritage dating back to the 10th century BCE; both sources of great pride. Ethiopia has one of the lowest GDP’s per capita in the world, yet they know they’ve been able to preserve their heritage in a way many cultures have not. Coffee in Ethiopia, and pageantry surrounding it, unambiguously illustrates for an outsider what we have lost.
My sense of taste and smell had kept me so busy I failed to recognize when a man began playing a single-stringed instrument called a Mosenqo. After my third cup of coffee I noticed my hosts rising to dance. I, joining them, began to move like a cartoon character given too much caffeine, though with less grace.