The Timkat Coffee Club

Article and photos by Joanna Griffin

The author with the Timkat local coffee club.

It was twilight on the evening of the holiest of days: Timkat, “Epiphany,” in the small and ancient city of Gondar, tucked away amongst the mountains and plateaus of North Western Ethiopia. In the small neighborhood of dirt roads, small stone houses, and tiny tin kiosks, light bulbs were glowing dimly, children were playing their last games of the day outside in the street, and the sounds of chatter and laughter were coming from inside the small homes. I was squeezed into Birhanie’s tiny hut with my female neighbors, celebrating the remains of this important day.

Timkat ceremony at the Orthodox Christian celebration of the Ethiopian Epiphany.

I had seen Birhanie many times, washing her clothes in a large tin bowl outside her hut, drying chilies in the sun on the street, and passing the time with the other neighborhood women. She was round, “wofram” as the Ethiopians politely call it without a hint of an insult — cheerful and motherly, always waving at me from a distance and letting out a friendly, throaty chuckle at the Farenji, the foreigner, in her midst. She lived alone, but I knew she had raised children far away in Israel. She missed them, and occasionally, they would phone a neighbor’s telephone, and one of the children would be told to run and find Birhanie. She would come rushing in, breathless and anxious to hear they were well. This was the first time I’d been inside her home, and as I sat amongst the others, I watched her slap her knees and throw her head back in amusement at the novelty of my presence.

The evening and the atmosphere in the hut were warm. I was tired but content, having risen before dawn that morning and processed with the faithful, tourists and partygoers alike, to the ancient bath house of the seventeenth-century Emperor Fasiledes. Holding a lighted taper in my hand, at one with the sea of white lights that filled the walled enclosure, I’d listened to the low hypnotic chanting of the priests at prayer. As dawn broke and the atmosphere lightened, I watched as the believers surged forward to jump into the green water of the baths. The sacred was over for the day, and the secular was beginning to take its place. Family photographs were taken on the red carpets, and young men threw lemons at their girlfriends in declarations of love and marriage proposals. No lemons had been thrown at me, but I’d been happy to pose with Ethiopians for their family portraits.

As the tourists returned to their hotels, preparing to move on to their next destination the following day, I wandered home, tired and ready for bed. It was not to be. “Buna, buna,” my neighbors called from their vantage point across the narrow dirt road from the gates of my home, beckoning me in for coffee. Momentarily torn between the peace and quiet of my house and the noise and vibrancy of a local coffee ceremony, I accepted.

I was still dressed in the traditional Habesha dress I had put on that morning to belong to the celebrations. The others wore their everyday clothes — an assortment of long, colorful fabrics and non-matching T-shirts and skirts. Unlike me, I guessed they’d spent the day brushing their homes, preparing the spicy celebration dish "Doro Wat," and receiving their guests, working as usual. Long and white with a brightly colored hand-stitched trim woven with gold thread, I knew that the dress made me look ridiculous. Too pale and lacking the heavy traditional jewelry worn on such occasions, I was a mere shadow of the beautiful locals in their finery. None of us cared. I felt a rare moment of acceptance, and my neighbors were delighted with their Habesha Farenji.

The room in which we were sitting was the only one in the tiny hut on the corner of the street. A small bed was screened off by curtains, and we’d all squeeze into chairs near the front door: six of us and a young baby. Three months earlier, I had named the baby Yonas, having found myself in another crowded home on the evening of his birth, facing a room of friends and neighbors chanting “Sim, Sim, Sim” as I entered, encouraging me to give the boy his name.

My neighbors suddenly had an idea that judging by their body language, clearly amused them. I was pulled from my seat and pushed excitedly onto the low stool behind a small table that held the coffee cups. As if I was not already enough of a spectacle, my shrubs, the white scarf covering my head, were arranged behind my ears. “Tigray, Tigray” they cried, dressing me as a traditional woman from the Tigray region, further into the hills of the north. One rushed out of the hut and reappeared moments later with thick, heavy gold earrings and a necklace with which I was swiftly adorned. Satisfied, they stood back and looked at me, clapping and shrieking with delight. Their humor was devoid of mockery, and what was a little gentle humiliation if it drew me into their circle?

The games were over, and Birhanie took her seat on the stool where I’d been sitting moments before, dressed like the Queen of Sheba. She lit the charcoal stove on the floor by the bed and soon began to roast the coffee beans over the hot coals. The aroma of freshly roasted coffee filled the hut, and Birhanie wafted the smoke toward us, silently requesting our appreciation. In front of the stove was a small, brightly colored machesha, an incense burner used at the traditional ceremony. Birhanie tipped in hot coals, sprinkled them with incense crumbs, and sweetly scented the hut. The coffee was brewed slowly in a beautiful jebona, the traditional curved coffee pot of the Amhara region where we lived. I knew from experience that this would not be a quick cup of coffee, but I had it all evening; nothing here was ever done in a hurry.

The chatter continued as we sat and drank the strong, sweet brew — three cups: arbol, tona, and baracka. Each cup was named, as legend would have it, after the three shepherds whose goats discovered the beans in the Kaffa region of the south in the year 800. I smiled to myself at the wonderful legends surrounding Ethiopian culture, repeatedly told around the glowing stoves of coffee ceremonies nationwide. I had heard this story many times before but expressed delight again, as though it was the first time. I drank all three cups — it would be impolite to refuse. Sometimes, a sleepless night was worth it.

Ethiopian hostess serving coffee.	Author serving coffee in traditional dress..

I cannot count how often I have witnessed the age-old Ethiopian coffee ceremony. Still, it had never been like the one in Birhanie’s home before. I asked myself why. Perhaps, in the lobbies of international hotels and the dining rooms of tourist restaurants, an important ingredient had been missing. Maybe my traditional dress and heavy Tigray jewelry made me feel like an Ethiopian that night. Perhaps it was the warmth of female friendship with its chatter and laughter that transcends all barriers of language and culture or the age-old stories exchanged over coffee that I might never have known. Or, maybe it was precious time away from overcrowded buses and travel itineraries to absorb the local traditions and immerse myself in this ancient culture. Who knows? I would reflect on that later that night as I lay in bed, inevitably unable to sleep.

Joanna Griffin is a physiotherapist currently working in the southwest England. She is passionate about travel and has spent time in Africa, Asia, North America, and mainland Europe. Joanna recently took a career break and worked as a volunteer physiotherapist for 22 months in Gondar, northwest Ethiopia. An experience during my time there has formed the basis for this essay.