Thursday, September 25, 2003
Lying in the sea, staring at the stars
Friday 12th September (continued)
The food. Injera is a spongy pancake about a quarter of an inch thick. Another new volunteer -- Tom -- reckons it has the texture of a school gym mat, and he has a point. It's made by mixing maize and sorghum flour with water. The mixture is spiked with a piece from the previous batch, which sets off the fermentation process. The mix -- the texture and colour of sick, according to Kirsty -- is then left for a few days to mature. Finally, it's poured into a pan and cooked. The resulting gym mat has a wonderful bready taste with the sharp tang that the fermentation brings. It's this that we use, torn off and pinched between the fingers of the right hand, to mop up the various stews that have been ladled into the middle. Flavours and textures range from the scratchy chick pea paste, through red lentils, yoghurt and spicy spinach to rich, earthy goat meat. I've given in to eating meat and I'm not even past my first week here.
After the meal the tables are cleared away and the music starts. A ropey tape of traditional music gets everyone onto the floor, shuffling slowly in a circle and shrugging our shoulders in the traditional fashion. It's very simple: loping to the rhythm of a drum beating out the seconds with a repetitive string melody. Amanuel is the star. He jumps into the middle and struts his stuff. One of the girls wets a 1 Nakfa note and sticks it onto his forehead -- a sign of appreciation. The restaurant owner's two little girls join in the dance, and I'm mugging like a fool to entertain them. I think one of them likes me because, when the dancing is over, she comes over and perches on the arm of my chair, her hand resting on my shoulder, and doesn't look like she intends to leave.
Asmara
------
Long, straight, wide avenues lined with palm trees, around which cluster small grids of crowded streets. At the centre is St Mary's Cathedral: a broad, shallow building in brown stone, with delicate relief highlighting the geometric neatness. Its bell tower stretches to 52 metres, the slender hub of the city. Nearby is the post office. A leaf green box two storeys high, with yellow trimmings seeping from around the centre and top like icing oozing from a cake. Inside, a large open hall bounded by dark wood counters, separating the clerks from customers with plastic screens made opaque by years of smudges. In the centre is a long bench in the same colour wood, Asmarinos writing home on the desk that slants on either side. Like stepping back into the 1930s.
The rest of the city spreads out and curves up at the edges in a shallow dish. It's a great city to cycle around. The major roads are very wide. Cars overtake each other and cyclists, leaving lots of room and signalling their intent with a beep of the horn. They seem especially respectful of us, the "tilianos" (much of the language derives from colonial days). Asmara is the safest city I've ever seen for cycling. The biggest hazard is the pedestrians, who walk out into the road without looking or pausing.
The avenues and main streets are paved with small tiles, patterned with little squares. They are remarkably even and well-kept except where they have been dug up to make way for cables or pipes. It seems nobody ever quite gets around to replacing dug up tiles, so there are long stretches of rubble. In some places, the rubble has been around for so long that it has been incoroporated into the earth as if it is a natural rock formation. Occasionally the run of grand buildings is interrupted by a small park: manicured and lush with palms and huge cacti through which a skein of paths weaves.
At night the street lamps and warm air create a romantic atmosphere through which the Asmarinos stroll. The main thoroughfares are crowded with teenagers and middle-aged couples. There are very few young adults: almost all are away at Sawa, the military training camp, or "in the field" -- the Eritrean euphamism for active service.
Asmara is rich in restaurants and bars. Most are fairly good, not exceptional. Pizza and pasta are everywhere, injera less so. The best injera I've tried so far is at Top Five Hotel. The pasta's good in most places unless it's locally made when it tends to be gluey. Eritreans don't use pepper. There are pepper trees everywhere around the city. Grab a handful of the berries, rub them around in your hands to release the frangrance then pop a couple into your mouth: the warm, sweet taste of fresh pepper, much milder than when it is dried. They have the trees but they don't think of using it in their food.
Saturday 13th and Sunday 14th September: the trip to Massawa.
Massawa. Port on the Red Sea, looking over to Saudi Arabia. It's about a hundred kilometres from Asmara. Horizontally, that is. Vertically, it is about 2400 metres down. The temperature rises about a degree celsius each 200 metres descent. That means that we are to travel from the cool 27 degrees of Asmara into about 40 degrees and the stifling, treacly air of sea level.
Most of us are cycling down as far as Ghinda'e, so we make it through the traffic fumes and dust that ring Asmara to the start of the escarpment that will take us down to the desert. The road is steep so it's mostly freewheeling, past little clusters of habitation who's children run out to give us high-fives and scream "tilianos, tilianos". Lots of "hello, how are you?", "I'm fine, how are you?" -- the conversation never gets any further. For the most part the kids are cute and great fune but there is a point where some older kids, perched on the hillside, start lobbing beles -- cactus fruit, or prickly pear -- at us as we cycle past. Actually, I'm not sure if they are aiming for us but one hits me on the shoulder and I get needles in my fingers as I brush it off and cycle on.
The scenery is beautiful: tiny villages punctuate the road as it winds through the terraced hills. Lush greenery gives way to scrub, then yellow sand and bare rock, as the temperature rises and we descend.
There are hair-raising hairpins on this road. Lorries and buses sound their horns as they approach but don't show any sign of slowing down. As in Asmara, they leave a courteous distance but when they overtake each other on the bends ...
Only two casualties amongst us. Tabby slips on some shiny tarmac on a curve and skids along, badly grazing leg and arm. Mel jams front wheel in a train track and somersaults into a cut lip. I'm fine, and loving the exhilirating ride down.
Guava juice and an egg sandwich in Ghinda'e then onto the bus for the final stretch across desert to Massawa. When we get there, our clothes are soaked with sweat. The heat is unbearable. A vicious sun reflects off the white sand and no shade is cool enough. Fortunately, it is late afternoon, so the sun is due to set soon.
By sunset, we're in the town, sitting at a fish restaurant. They cook whole fish -- red snapper -- and chapati-like bread in clay ovens. The skin of the fish is coated in a peppery spice and the whole meal is delicious. It's good to be outside now because the air has cooled down a little. It's still hotter than daytime in Asmara.
Massawa is built on an island, connected to the mainland by a causeway at either end. We end with a few beers at a hotel, looking along one of the causeways over shallow, steaming sea, then set off back to our own hotel at Gurgussum beach. Now is the time to get into the sea. In the daytime, the sea offers no respite. It is as hot as a bath, and you can't sweat underwater, so I felt hotter in the sea than out. At night, the sea is about the same temperature as the air, which is very pleasant. It is also very salty, so very bouyant. We mess about in the water, skinny dipping and drinking Asmara-brand gin with the ubiquitous Sprite. The best thing, though, is lying on your back, star-gazing, while the water supports you completely. Millions of starts stretch on forever and the flas of shooting stars interrupts at regular intervals. After a shower, A.J. (one of the current volunteers) leads a game of cards in the beach bar, over more gin and Zibib (Eritrean pastis).
The food. Injera is a spongy pancake about a quarter of an inch thick. Another new volunteer -- Tom -- reckons it has the texture of a school gym mat, and he has a point. It's made by mixing maize and sorghum flour with water. The mixture is spiked with a piece from the previous batch, which sets off the fermentation process. The mix -- the texture and colour of sick, according to Kirsty -- is then left for a few days to mature. Finally, it's poured into a pan and cooked. The resulting gym mat has a wonderful bready taste with the sharp tang that the fermentation brings. It's this that we use, torn off and pinched between the fingers of the right hand, to mop up the various stews that have been ladled into the middle. Flavours and textures range from the scratchy chick pea paste, through red lentils, yoghurt and spicy spinach to rich, earthy goat meat. I've given in to eating meat and I'm not even past my first week here.
After the meal the tables are cleared away and the music starts. A ropey tape of traditional music gets everyone onto the floor, shuffling slowly in a circle and shrugging our shoulders in the traditional fashion. It's very simple: loping to the rhythm of a drum beating out the seconds with a repetitive string melody. Amanuel is the star. He jumps into the middle and struts his stuff. One of the girls wets a 1 Nakfa note and sticks it onto his forehead -- a sign of appreciation. The restaurant owner's two little girls join in the dance, and I'm mugging like a fool to entertain them. I think one of them likes me because, when the dancing is over, she comes over and perches on the arm of my chair, her hand resting on my shoulder, and doesn't look like she intends to leave.
Asmara
------
Long, straight, wide avenues lined with palm trees, around which cluster small grids of crowded streets. At the centre is St Mary's Cathedral: a broad, shallow building in brown stone, with delicate relief highlighting the geometric neatness. Its bell tower stretches to 52 metres, the slender hub of the city. Nearby is the post office. A leaf green box two storeys high, with yellow trimmings seeping from around the centre and top like icing oozing from a cake. Inside, a large open hall bounded by dark wood counters, separating the clerks from customers with plastic screens made opaque by years of smudges. In the centre is a long bench in the same colour wood, Asmarinos writing home on the desk that slants on either side. Like stepping back into the 1930s.
The rest of the city spreads out and curves up at the edges in a shallow dish. It's a great city to cycle around. The major roads are very wide. Cars overtake each other and cyclists, leaving lots of room and signalling their intent with a beep of the horn. They seem especially respectful of us, the "tilianos" (much of the language derives from colonial days). Asmara is the safest city I've ever seen for cycling. The biggest hazard is the pedestrians, who walk out into the road without looking or pausing.
The avenues and main streets are paved with small tiles, patterned with little squares. They are remarkably even and well-kept except where they have been dug up to make way for cables or pipes. It seems nobody ever quite gets around to replacing dug up tiles, so there are long stretches of rubble. In some places, the rubble has been around for so long that it has been incoroporated into the earth as if it is a natural rock formation. Occasionally the run of grand buildings is interrupted by a small park: manicured and lush with palms and huge cacti through which a skein of paths weaves.
At night the street lamps and warm air create a romantic atmosphere through which the Asmarinos stroll. The main thoroughfares are crowded with teenagers and middle-aged couples. There are very few young adults: almost all are away at Sawa, the military training camp, or "in the field" -- the Eritrean euphamism for active service.
Asmara is rich in restaurants and bars. Most are fairly good, not exceptional. Pizza and pasta are everywhere, injera less so. The best injera I've tried so far is at Top Five Hotel. The pasta's good in most places unless it's locally made when it tends to be gluey. Eritreans don't use pepper. There are pepper trees everywhere around the city. Grab a handful of the berries, rub them around in your hands to release the frangrance then pop a couple into your mouth: the warm, sweet taste of fresh pepper, much milder than when it is dried. They have the trees but they don't think of using it in their food.
Saturday 13th and Sunday 14th September: the trip to Massawa.
Massawa. Port on the Red Sea, looking over to Saudi Arabia. It's about a hundred kilometres from Asmara. Horizontally, that is. Vertically, it is about 2400 metres down. The temperature rises about a degree celsius each 200 metres descent. That means that we are to travel from the cool 27 degrees of Asmara into about 40 degrees and the stifling, treacly air of sea level.
Most of us are cycling down as far as Ghinda'e, so we make it through the traffic fumes and dust that ring Asmara to the start of the escarpment that will take us down to the desert. The road is steep so it's mostly freewheeling, past little clusters of habitation who's children run out to give us high-fives and scream "tilianos, tilianos". Lots of "hello, how are you?", "I'm fine, how are you?" -- the conversation never gets any further. For the most part the kids are cute and great fune but there is a point where some older kids, perched on the hillside, start lobbing beles -- cactus fruit, or prickly pear -- at us as we cycle past. Actually, I'm not sure if they are aiming for us but one hits me on the shoulder and I get needles in my fingers as I brush it off and cycle on.
The scenery is beautiful: tiny villages punctuate the road as it winds through the terraced hills. Lush greenery gives way to scrub, then yellow sand and bare rock, as the temperature rises and we descend.
There are hair-raising hairpins on this road. Lorries and buses sound their horns as they approach but don't show any sign of slowing down. As in Asmara, they leave a courteous distance but when they overtake each other on the bends ...
Only two casualties amongst us. Tabby slips on some shiny tarmac on a curve and skids along, badly grazing leg and arm. Mel jams front wheel in a train track and somersaults into a cut lip. I'm fine, and loving the exhilirating ride down.
Guava juice and an egg sandwich in Ghinda'e then onto the bus for the final stretch across desert to Massawa. When we get there, our clothes are soaked with sweat. The heat is unbearable. A vicious sun reflects off the white sand and no shade is cool enough. Fortunately, it is late afternoon, so the sun is due to set soon.
By sunset, we're in the town, sitting at a fish restaurant. They cook whole fish -- red snapper -- and chapati-like bread in clay ovens. The skin of the fish is coated in a peppery spice and the whole meal is delicious. It's good to be outside now because the air has cooled down a little. It's still hotter than daytime in Asmara.
Massawa is built on an island, connected to the mainland by a causeway at either end. We end with a few beers at a hotel, looking along one of the causeways over shallow, steaming sea, then set off back to our own hotel at Gurgussum beach. Now is the time to get into the sea. In the daytime, the sea offers no respite. It is as hot as a bath, and you can't sweat underwater, so I felt hotter in the sea than out. At night, the sea is about the same temperature as the air, which is very pleasant. It is also very salty, so very bouyant. We mess about in the water, skinny dipping and drinking Asmara-brand gin with the ubiquitous Sprite. The best thing, though, is lying on your back, star-gazing, while the water supports you completely. Millions of starts stretch on forever and the flas of shooting stars interrupts at regular intervals. After a shower, A.J. (one of the current volunteers) leads a game of cards in the beach bar, over more gin and Zibib (Eritrean pastis).
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