Thursday, October 30, 2003
The Animals of Keren
People share the town with a variety of animals. Some of them are utilitarian, others wild, none of them is treated with any compassion or interest. The long-legged camels lope along the river bed, strung together or lead by a turbanned trader. They groan with a profound melancholy as they roll along: a cavernous, resonating sound that seems to call up from the depths of the earth to vibrate along its surface in waves of mournful reproach. The goats and sheep are hard to distinguish from one another. Both are lean and tatty, the sheep in particular struggling to retain the scraps of wool that hang from their flanks. Many of the goats and sheep are pregnant. The goats often have cloth gloves to cover their udders, perhaps to stop the kids from feeding before they can be milked. The sheep and goats are about the same size, so the sheep are small compared to their farm-mutated European cousins. Goats and sheep roam almost freely around the entire town, but are usually followed eventually by a herder who slaps the stragglers with a stick regularly. Men lead their camels along the main streets, stopping to buy things from shops while the animal waits outside. It's a strange sight: a camel standing across the path whose reins lead into a grocery shop.
There are cows too. They are less common in the town itself, but often do the passagiata around Shifshevit after dark. As I walk back from town after sunset, I often come close to walking into a slumbering cow. They are small too, but stocky and healthy-looking. The local ones come from a compound / farm about 50 yards from my door whose wall was recently rebuilt. Before that, the cows would wander in and out as they pleased, treading over the crumbled stone.
Most compounds have a clutch of chickens, and a cockerel to service them. Before dawn -- at about 5 in the morning -- the cockerel chorus begins. It's fine until the lord of my compound begins his crowing and then it is impossible to sleep. I wonder if cockerel tastes as good as chicken ... The chickens themselves are insane. They are cooped by night then let loose in the morning, when they run around the compound clucking incessently. They go berserk at the sight of a human, running frantically for shelter, often threatening to run inside my house. Their chicks are kept in a box in the corner of the yard. Among the chickens, somewhere amidst the flurry of feathers, is a pair of ducks. Their wings appear atrophied -- I think they have been clipped to prevent them from flying. I chuck my vegetable peelings into the coop to delighted chatter. The chickens drive the chained dog crazy. He -- I think it is a he -- barks at them as he barks at the little children who come into the compound from time to time, and who throw stones at the dog when I'm not watching them. His fellow dogs patrol the town at night, shifting menacingly through the shadows. They are silent, in contrast to the compound-bound, who start their barking shortly after the first cockerel crow. Dogs and chickens are ancient enemies, it seems.
Donkeys are common in certain parts of town, although they are rare in Shifshevit. They mostly look very healthy: a rich chestnut brown with a thin black wishbone straddling their shoulders, and more black picking out the nose and ears. In villages, the donkeys are used to carry water from the well. Here, they carry items to and from the market, often with a boy riding well back over the rump, slapping the donkey with a stick. Sticks or stones are used readily on the animals here.
There are several beautiful birds: the brown, long-tailed mouse bird; small robins with incandescent orange breasts; the splendid starling whose coat shimmers in oily, metallic green and blue amongst the prevailing black. Then there are the swifts. They live in the eaves of the secondary school where I work: flitting in and out of small globe nests built from spit and feathers. They fly inches from the ground, and corkscrew past my elbow as I stand on the balcony outside the director's office. Like bats, they zoom straight up to obstacles, then veer off at the very last minute, slipping along stone walls, or buzzing past ears. At sunset is when they are most active scooping up the evening's insects. From the top of the Keren hotel they can be seen skidding around the town below, chirruping triumphantly.
The wasps use spit for their nests too. Black and gangly, two slim segments joined by an inch of wire, their long legs hang lazily as the slowly explore the inside of the school buildings, searching for food or potential nest sites. When they find a site, they flip over to land on the ceiling and begin construction of a hanging ball of spit and wood pulp. They're fairly benign, these wasps, but curious. They will hover languidly a couple of feet from your face but I have been warned not to try to bat one away -- the sting is painful. I've never seen one land on anything except ceiling, so I'm not worried by them.
Cockroaches are fewer than in Asmara, but can be much bigger. One of my residents was about three inches long but I haven't spotted any in my house for a week or so, which probably just means they've got cleverer. I've never seen one near my food, and I'm careful how I store it. I also always use the bed net, so there's no worry about them crawling over me at night.
There are huge ants, that zig-zag solo everywhere. They are harmless. I've never been stung or bitten by one, and they don't gather in troops like other species. There is another type of ant that I initially mistook for a scorpion. Its back is permanently arched in defensive strike-readiness, and it scuttles about the sand, lifted high on its long legs. There are ant-lions too, but the only evidence of them is the small pit in the sand, with a hole at its centre. In that hole is a beetle larva waiting patiently for a curious ant to investigate its lair. Ant gets too close and beetle lunges out and closes its powerful jaws around its prey.
Many beetles appear in the toilet regularly but the strangest is one that a teacher finds one day in the staff room. Its body is about two inches long, oval and seems to be two shallow disks stuck together at the rims. The top disk is olive green, the bottom one yellow. It has cellophane wings, with black veins running through them. Its abdomen is covered in a furry fuzz that flexes and contracts. Since being in Eritrea, I've quickly developed a tolerance of mudane pests and a fascination for the more exotic examples.
Sitting this afternoon under a small tree in a big school -- Megarh Junior School to the west of town -- chatting to the P.E. teacher when a small hawk lands on the roof opposite. It's slim and very beautiful: light brown flecked with white and a delicate, feminine arch to its breast and head. As it takes off for a nearby tree, there's a flash of black and white, fanning the banded tail to steer.
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There are cows too. They are less common in the town itself, but often do the passagiata around Shifshevit after dark. As I walk back from town after sunset, I often come close to walking into a slumbering cow. They are small too, but stocky and healthy-looking. The local ones come from a compound / farm about 50 yards from my door whose wall was recently rebuilt. Before that, the cows would wander in and out as they pleased, treading over the crumbled stone.
Most compounds have a clutch of chickens, and a cockerel to service them. Before dawn -- at about 5 in the morning -- the cockerel chorus begins. It's fine until the lord of my compound begins his crowing and then it is impossible to sleep. I wonder if cockerel tastes as good as chicken ... The chickens themselves are insane. They are cooped by night then let loose in the morning, when they run around the compound clucking incessently. They go berserk at the sight of a human, running frantically for shelter, often threatening to run inside my house. Their chicks are kept in a box in the corner of the yard. Among the chickens, somewhere amidst the flurry of feathers, is a pair of ducks. Their wings appear atrophied -- I think they have been clipped to prevent them from flying. I chuck my vegetable peelings into the coop to delighted chatter. The chickens drive the chained dog crazy. He -- I think it is a he -- barks at them as he barks at the little children who come into the compound from time to time, and who throw stones at the dog when I'm not watching them. His fellow dogs patrol the town at night, shifting menacingly through the shadows. They are silent, in contrast to the compound-bound, who start their barking shortly after the first cockerel crow. Dogs and chickens are ancient enemies, it seems.
Donkeys are common in certain parts of town, although they are rare in Shifshevit. They mostly look very healthy: a rich chestnut brown with a thin black wishbone straddling their shoulders, and more black picking out the nose and ears. In villages, the donkeys are used to carry water from the well. Here, they carry items to and from the market, often with a boy riding well back over the rump, slapping the donkey with a stick. Sticks or stones are used readily on the animals here.
There are several beautiful birds: the brown, long-tailed mouse bird; small robins with incandescent orange breasts; the splendid starling whose coat shimmers in oily, metallic green and blue amongst the prevailing black. Then there are the swifts. They live in the eaves of the secondary school where I work: flitting in and out of small globe nests built from spit and feathers. They fly inches from the ground, and corkscrew past my elbow as I stand on the balcony outside the director's office. Like bats, they zoom straight up to obstacles, then veer off at the very last minute, slipping along stone walls, or buzzing past ears. At sunset is when they are most active scooping up the evening's insects. From the top of the Keren hotel they can be seen skidding around the town below, chirruping triumphantly.
The wasps use spit for their nests too. Black and gangly, two slim segments joined by an inch of wire, their long legs hang lazily as the slowly explore the inside of the school buildings, searching for food or potential nest sites. When they find a site, they flip over to land on the ceiling and begin construction of a hanging ball of spit and wood pulp. They're fairly benign, these wasps, but curious. They will hover languidly a couple of feet from your face but I have been warned not to try to bat one away -- the sting is painful. I've never seen one land on anything except ceiling, so I'm not worried by them.
Cockroaches are fewer than in Asmara, but can be much bigger. One of my residents was about three inches long but I haven't spotted any in my house for a week or so, which probably just means they've got cleverer. I've never seen one near my food, and I'm careful how I store it. I also always use the bed net, so there's no worry about them crawling over me at night.
There are huge ants, that zig-zag solo everywhere. They are harmless. I've never been stung or bitten by one, and they don't gather in troops like other species. There is another type of ant that I initially mistook for a scorpion. Its back is permanently arched in defensive strike-readiness, and it scuttles about the sand, lifted high on its long legs. There are ant-lions too, but the only evidence of them is the small pit in the sand, with a hole at its centre. In that hole is a beetle larva waiting patiently for a curious ant to investigate its lair. Ant gets too close and beetle lunges out and closes its powerful jaws around its prey.
Many beetles appear in the toilet regularly but the strangest is one that a teacher finds one day in the staff room. Its body is about two inches long, oval and seems to be two shallow disks stuck together at the rims. The top disk is olive green, the bottom one yellow. It has cellophane wings, with black veins running through them. Its abdomen is covered in a furry fuzz that flexes and contracts. Since being in Eritrea, I've quickly developed a tolerance of mudane pests and a fascination for the more exotic examples.
Sitting this afternoon under a small tree in a big school -- Megarh Junior School to the west of town -- chatting to the P.E. teacher when a small hawk lands on the roof opposite. It's slim and very beautiful: light brown flecked with white and a delicate, feminine arch to its breast and head. As it takes off for a nearby tree, there's a flash of black and white, fanning the banded tail to steer.
Saturday, October 18, 2003
Into the lowlands
My commentary on Eritrean bureacracy was unfair. In fact, the bureaucracy here is probably no worse than in England, and certainly a lot better than some other European countries. I'm not certain that a foreign national could get their paperwork sorted in England as quickly as I have here. I just have a thing about pen-pushing.
Friday 26th September
My turn to leave for my placement. We're due to leave at 8am, so I get up then, but walk down into town because I've been told there's a parcel waiting for me. After some time at the post office, waiting for them to decide that I should pay nearly 900 Nacfa (about 30 sterling) in tax for the CDs my folks sent me, I walk back to the hotel. Our transport still hasn't arrived so we sit among the muddle of our new furniture and have banana and bread breakfast. A staple here in Asmara.
The truck that arrives is much bigger than previous ones, and has plenty of room for all our stuff. Three of us cram into the cab of that one, while the others pile into Amanuel's van behind.
The road to Keren is incredibly beautiful, made more so by the greenery that the rains have brought out. The road curves round hills, valleys sweeping down to the side. Small streams appear occasionally and tall, broad cacti adorn the hillsides like giant candelabras. About halfway through the 90 Km journey, Elabored appears like an oasis. The landscape has been green so far, because the rains were good this year, but Elabored is like a garden of Eden. A mass of flowering bushes lines the road on either side. Oranges, pinks and yellows flash past. Beyond these we can see orchards and vines stretched across the slopes. And then, like a dream, it is gone.
Now the road starts to get steeper, and dustier. The vegetation thins as the air heats up and we approach Keren.
Keren
-----
Keren has a very Arabic flavour to it. I say that having never been to a country in that region, but it matches the impressions I have of souks, sand and snow-white jelebas. The town (or city) fans out from the Giro Fiori ("Circle of Flowers") roundabout. Goats gather on the roundabout, eating the flowers. Some of them stretch up on hind legs to reach the last of the bounty. The fountain in its centre is only switched on to mark special occasions because water is a big issue here.
To the South-East there is a chaotic series of markets: a skein of vegetable stalls follows a dried-up river bed; a cluster of makeshift huts offer tall bundles of green bamboo; the buildings adjoining form streets of tupperware, fabric, furniture and jewellery, while the corner of one is straddled by shops selling equipment for the coffee ceremony. At the edge of this commercial bustle is the large mosque, white and gold standing pure in the bleaching sun.
The people are colourful and varied. There are many Christians here as well as Muslims. There is also a selection of ethnic groups. Keren is home to the Bilen people, whose women swaddle themselves in bright wraps, huge nose rings flapping as they walk about. There are also many Tigre, with their scarred cheeks. Tigrinians are less conspicuous. It is a huge contrast to Asmara, where Western fashions dominate and the traditional (Tigrinian) dress is simple, crisp white.
There is not much traffic here, and it travels slowly along the sandy roads. The streets have often collapsed due to rain or erosion, so, apart from the tarmacced main roads, progress is slow and bumpy, even on foot. The heat of the afternoon sun slows the pace down further, providing a steady procession of interesting faces for the people watching from the small circle of bars and cafes near the Post Office. Here is the Keren hotel, with its viewing tower, and Aragay's -- a lively place full of good-humoured chat and gossip.
The rooftop of the Keren hotel is a great place to be at dusk. The harsh heat of the day is tempered as the sun sets behind the Western hills. Turning around, you can see the whole of Keren and, for 360 degrees, the hills that surround it. If there are clouds in the sky, they light up an irridescent pink, and the colours of the earth return from their sun-bleached absence. Sipping a gin and tonic, watching the transition from hot busy day to balmy evening.
Aragay's. A verandah overlooks the street on two corners, and people sit facing out an watching the world go by. A wide range of ages but, like almost all the bars and cafes in Keren, no women. Women stay at home or shop, they don't go out to eat or drink, with some rare exceptions among the women in their twenties. Aragay's is a good place to meet people, whether by arrangement or happy chance. The staff are very friendly, especially Aragay himself who has a genial, proprietorial air about him that bears witness to the pride he has in his hotel and cafe. It's actually called the Senhit Hotel, but everyone knows it as Aragay's.
Regular visitors to bars like Aragay's are the local eccentrics. Many Eritreans fought in the war for liberation and the more recent border conflict. Many of those who fought were damaged psychologically, and of course there are others who suffer but never fought. I have heard the suggestion that they are often thrown out of their home villages and so gravitate towards the larger towns where variety and relative wealth make people more charitable. Most of them are harmless. There is one who was trained as a pharmacist, who will talk intensely about security and secret services, then launch suddenly into reciting the correct drugs for treatment of TB. He comes up and asks if I am Israeli one day. Alex tells me he once phoned up the Israeli embassy in Eritrea and said he'd planted a bomb. The police surrounded his house and dragged him out in response. Bet he's polpular with his neighbours. There are others like the guy with a bandaged arm who grabs people by their arm to ask for "shahi" (tea), or the angry guy who throws stones at the kerb and picks up chairs in the bars. He seems threatening, but his stones and chairs never actually hit anyone. There is one guy who can get violent. He kicked Isabel once, so she in particular is very nervous of him.
The first week in Keren.
------------------------
So I'm here at last. Alex (VSO English methodologist and resident of Keren for the past four years, after two years in Nakfa) meets us and takes us to my house. It is in an area called Shifshevit, about 25 minutes' walk from Giro Fiori. From the centre of town the walk takes you past the sports stadium, along a wide, dry riverbed that is now just sand, and back up onto sandy tracks past garin silos and a mosque. Shifshevit itself is a grid of sandy streets that undulate with the contours of the land, and shift or disappear when it rains. They are lined with small compounds of two or three houses around a yard. My compound is one of these.
There are three houses: I live in two large rooms whose high celings give cool shelter from the sun. Old Gabriella is my landlady. She lives in the small room adjoining mine, but spends most of her time on the bed on the porch outside my window. She lays there between housework and cooking during the day, and usually sleeps there during at night. I've thought of dragging my bed outside on particularly hot nights, but I don't think I could put up with the insects. Young Gabriella is the other resident. She is five months pregnant, and has a little boy -- Fedhawit -- and an older girl -- Fiori. They're cute, shy but friendly. There are chickens and a couple of ducks. Lastly, there is the poor dog. I'm not sure who it belongs to -- I think it is young Gabriella but neither of them speak any English, so it's difficult to establish. The poor animal is kept permanently chained to one wall of the compound. It yaps and bounces with alternate joy and supplication whenever anyone comes near, or barks fearfully if a stranger enters the compound. I think the kids throw stones at it, but I haven't caught them at it yet. It's difficult to know what to do about the dog: I hate to see it suffer the way it does, but my language is nowhere near the level for a discussion about it. When I tried talking about it with old Gabriella and my friend Huruy, whose English is pretty good, neither of them really understood why I was concerned. The dog is chained up because otherwise it would run away and possibly catch diseases. Simple as that. I think it's common for animals to be treated like that in this country, so I am swimming upstream. I'll continue to try to improve the dog's lot though. At least I pet it occasionally, and show it some sympathy. Poor, poor thing.
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Friday 26th September
My turn to leave for my placement. We're due to leave at 8am, so I get up then, but walk down into town because I've been told there's a parcel waiting for me. After some time at the post office, waiting for them to decide that I should pay nearly 900 Nacfa (about 30 sterling) in tax for the CDs my folks sent me, I walk back to the hotel. Our transport still hasn't arrived so we sit among the muddle of our new furniture and have banana and bread breakfast. A staple here in Asmara.
The truck that arrives is much bigger than previous ones, and has plenty of room for all our stuff. Three of us cram into the cab of that one, while the others pile into Amanuel's van behind.
The road to Keren is incredibly beautiful, made more so by the greenery that the rains have brought out. The road curves round hills, valleys sweeping down to the side. Small streams appear occasionally and tall, broad cacti adorn the hillsides like giant candelabras. About halfway through the 90 Km journey, Elabored appears like an oasis. The landscape has been green so far, because the rains were good this year, but Elabored is like a garden of Eden. A mass of flowering bushes lines the road on either side. Oranges, pinks and yellows flash past. Beyond these we can see orchards and vines stretched across the slopes. And then, like a dream, it is gone.
Now the road starts to get steeper, and dustier. The vegetation thins as the air heats up and we approach Keren.
Keren
-----
Keren has a very Arabic flavour to it. I say that having never been to a country in that region, but it matches the impressions I have of souks, sand and snow-white jelebas. The town (or city) fans out from the Giro Fiori ("Circle of Flowers") roundabout. Goats gather on the roundabout, eating the flowers. Some of them stretch up on hind legs to reach the last of the bounty. The fountain in its centre is only switched on to mark special occasions because water is a big issue here.
To the South-East there is a chaotic series of markets: a skein of vegetable stalls follows a dried-up river bed; a cluster of makeshift huts offer tall bundles of green bamboo; the buildings adjoining form streets of tupperware, fabric, furniture and jewellery, while the corner of one is straddled by shops selling equipment for the coffee ceremony. At the edge of this commercial bustle is the large mosque, white and gold standing pure in the bleaching sun.
The people are colourful and varied. There are many Christians here as well as Muslims. There is also a selection of ethnic groups. Keren is home to the Bilen people, whose women swaddle themselves in bright wraps, huge nose rings flapping as they walk about. There are also many Tigre, with their scarred cheeks. Tigrinians are less conspicuous. It is a huge contrast to Asmara, where Western fashions dominate and the traditional (Tigrinian) dress is simple, crisp white.
There is not much traffic here, and it travels slowly along the sandy roads. The streets have often collapsed due to rain or erosion, so, apart from the tarmacced main roads, progress is slow and bumpy, even on foot. The heat of the afternoon sun slows the pace down further, providing a steady procession of interesting faces for the people watching from the small circle of bars and cafes near the Post Office. Here is the Keren hotel, with its viewing tower, and Aragay's -- a lively place full of good-humoured chat and gossip.
The rooftop of the Keren hotel is a great place to be at dusk. The harsh heat of the day is tempered as the sun sets behind the Western hills. Turning around, you can see the whole of Keren and, for 360 degrees, the hills that surround it. If there are clouds in the sky, they light up an irridescent pink, and the colours of the earth return from their sun-bleached absence. Sipping a gin and tonic, watching the transition from hot busy day to balmy evening.
Aragay's. A verandah overlooks the street on two corners, and people sit facing out an watching the world go by. A wide range of ages but, like almost all the bars and cafes in Keren, no women. Women stay at home or shop, they don't go out to eat or drink, with some rare exceptions among the women in their twenties. Aragay's is a good place to meet people, whether by arrangement or happy chance. The staff are very friendly, especially Aragay himself who has a genial, proprietorial air about him that bears witness to the pride he has in his hotel and cafe. It's actually called the Senhit Hotel, but everyone knows it as Aragay's.
Regular visitors to bars like Aragay's are the local eccentrics. Many Eritreans fought in the war for liberation and the more recent border conflict. Many of those who fought were damaged psychologically, and of course there are others who suffer but never fought. I have heard the suggestion that they are often thrown out of their home villages and so gravitate towards the larger towns where variety and relative wealth make people more charitable. Most of them are harmless. There is one who was trained as a pharmacist, who will talk intensely about security and secret services, then launch suddenly into reciting the correct drugs for treatment of TB. He comes up and asks if I am Israeli one day. Alex tells me he once phoned up the Israeli embassy in Eritrea and said he'd planted a bomb. The police surrounded his house and dragged him out in response. Bet he's polpular with his neighbours. There are others like the guy with a bandaged arm who grabs people by their arm to ask for "shahi" (tea), or the angry guy who throws stones at the kerb and picks up chairs in the bars. He seems threatening, but his stones and chairs never actually hit anyone. There is one guy who can get violent. He kicked Isabel once, so she in particular is very nervous of him.
The first week in Keren.
------------------------
So I'm here at last. Alex (VSO English methodologist and resident of Keren for the past four years, after two years in Nakfa) meets us and takes us to my house. It is in an area called Shifshevit, about 25 minutes' walk from Giro Fiori. From the centre of town the walk takes you past the sports stadium, along a wide, dry riverbed that is now just sand, and back up onto sandy tracks past garin silos and a mosque. Shifshevit itself is a grid of sandy streets that undulate with the contours of the land, and shift or disappear when it rains. They are lined with small compounds of two or three houses around a yard. My compound is one of these.
There are three houses: I live in two large rooms whose high celings give cool shelter from the sun. Old Gabriella is my landlady. She lives in the small room adjoining mine, but spends most of her time on the bed on the porch outside my window. She lays there between housework and cooking during the day, and usually sleeps there during at night. I've thought of dragging my bed outside on particularly hot nights, but I don't think I could put up with the insects. Young Gabriella is the other resident. She is five months pregnant, and has a little boy -- Fedhawit -- and an older girl -- Fiori. They're cute, shy but friendly. There are chickens and a couple of ducks. Lastly, there is the poor dog. I'm not sure who it belongs to -- I think it is young Gabriella but neither of them speak any English, so it's difficult to establish. The poor animal is kept permanently chained to one wall of the compound. It yaps and bounces with alternate joy and supplication whenever anyone comes near, or barks fearfully if a stranger enters the compound. I think the kids throw stones at it, but I haven't caught them at it yet. It's difficult to know what to do about the dog: I hate to see it suffer the way it does, but my language is nowhere near the level for a discussion about it. When I tried talking about it with old Gabriella and my friend Huruy, whose English is pretty good, neither of them really understood why I was concerned. The dog is chained up because otherwise it would run away and possibly catch diseases. Simple as that. I think it's common for animals to be treated like that in this country, so I am swimming upstream. I'll continue to try to improve the dog's lot though. At least I pet it occasionally, and show it some sympathy. Poor, poor thing.
Thursday, October 09, 2003
Maggoty sultanas
Wednesday 17th and Thursday 18th September (continued)
Kirsty and I go shopping for beer at the local bar, she chatting away to the gathered men -- only the men spend time in the bars, the women stay at home making injera, doing housework, or preparing coffee. I mumble a few greetings in rubbish Tigrinya but they're happy (amused) with that. The bar is another shack, with wooden benches around the walls that have animal skins draped over them. The bar sells three things: Asmara beer, Asmara gin, and Asmara zibib. The state is the only producer of local alcohol, if you don't count the countless semi-illegal one-woman sewa producers.
Back in the yard, all of us muck in to cook up a really tasty mix of onions, potato, tomato, courgette and pasta under the stars. All around, the sounds of the village and the countryside beyond start to encroach on our conversation. Donkeys bray and dogs howl, replacing the diurnal complaints of the insane chickens. We're all getting slightly drunk on beer and then gin (we drank the bar dry of beer and had to get gin from the local shop, run by the local gossip so I guess she's set up for conversation over the next couple of weeks), and having the type of bullshit conversation that happens in every pub or bar in the world, except here we're sitting in a tiny village surrounded by wildness and strangeness.
I can't get to sleep that night. The crowded room (there are six of us) and the intermittent braying of a nearby donkey keep me awake until the deafening crow of the local cockerel just before dawn. We're all up just after dawn, and a couple of us go for a wander outside outside the compound. In the cool, misty morning air there is a crowd of about 50 faithful gathered in white shrouds in front of the orthodox church. The low sun lights the scene from behind the church, sending long shadows across the ground. Perched on some rocks just outside the compound, Graham and I watch as the congregation respond to the chants of the priest at their head. He, like them, is facing the church and the pink new-born sun, swinging a bell on a chain to keep time with his chants. Their voices are low and hypnotic, the whole scene feels timeless and enchanted.
Breakfast of porridge, laced with chopped fruit and sultanas that may or may not have tiny maggots crawling amongst them (close your eyes and it doesn't matter -- they're too small to taste or be any harm) then off on the aforementioned quest for water.
The minibus picks us up when we get back with the water, and takes us back to Mendefere. At the bus station there is an unexpected queue which we join for a while. Old women blatantly push in front of us -- it's every man and woman for themselves -- placing a rock in the line to save their ill-gotten position while they disappear over to the nearby food stands. A couple of us make the mistake of stepping past the stones until one of the women returns and starts haranguing us in Tigrinya. Eventually we give up and bargain with a local driver to charter a bus back to Asmara.
Friday 19th September -- A.J.s party
A.J. is one of the current I.T. teacher volunteers. He lives on the Keren road, near the edge of the city. The house is on a large plot of land: 3 bedrooms side by side with a yard then flush toilet (the distinction between flush and squat toilets is beginning to become very important to us all) and kitchen off at right angles. The nuildings bound a large garden planted with vegetables. A very atypical volunteer house. Electricity, running water and more than one room are rare indeed.
Almost all the VSO volunteers and staff are gathered for beer, zibib, gin, and a Powerpoint slideshow of photos from the past year, to celebrate the end of the in-country training, and also Susie's (current volunteer) birthday. The current volunteers all look much younger in the photos, it's strange to see how they have changed in just a year. Most of them have lost weight, some of them a lot, but it seems like puppy fat as all but a couple now look lean and healthy.
There's a cake for Susie, in the shape of her beloved bicycle. Miraculously, it was baked over one of the tiny, standard-issue kerosene stoves. It's moist and very tasty.
It's very incongruous, sitting aroung tables in A.J.s garden, watching a slideshow and eating pizza and birthday cake, while outside is red-dust Africa and the local goat market.
Bureaucracy
-----------
Saturday's the day we were all scheduled to leave for our placements and new homes. It doesn't happen, perhaps because we haven't got our resident permits yet although nobody's really sure. In fact, I'm one step behind the others because my work permit application was temporarily lost. They found it on Friday (the photo I'd given them was too big to fit on the card so my file was loitering in a different office to the rest) but the minister wasn't available to sign it so I have to wait until Monday. An unexpected free weekend ...
Saturday 20th and Sunday 21st September -- Another village and a bit of hard graft.
... so, at the party, I committed myself to spending the weekend at the village of an existing volunteer -- Amilee -- to help her paint a classroom before the start of school on Monday.
Emberto is 18Km South of Asmara, an easy cycle along exhaust-choked road, past industrial plants. We park our bikes at a bar just off the main road then walk down a slope into the valley where the village sits. After the road it's a pleasant surprise. A lot bigger than Adi Gual, the village stretches around a bend in a valley, a confusing jumble of houses, bars and shops (it's difficult to distinguish one from the other) edging a broad sweep of crop-packed fields that are almost ready for harvest.
Amilee's house is bigger and more solid than Kirsty's. Still one room plus oustide squat toilet / shower but it has a more permanent feel to it. The inevitable lunatic chickens strut in the yard, and the equally inevitable donkey walks in from time to time, to hoover up the peelings and fruit skins that she throws into the yard. Very little is wasted in a village: donkeys, goats and chickens eat scraps and scrapings, most bought food is wrapped in old newspapers that is then burned with the used toilet tissue and scattered on the vegetable patch. Any packaging is recycled in ingenious ways: plastic water bottles store spices or hold house plants, beer bottle tops clipped around lengths of string make efficient fly deterrent curtains.
Amilee's neighbours -- grandparents to the ubiquitous kids running around -- invite us over for coffee. This will take a while.
They don't speak any English but we get on okay except for a couple of moments where the old woman goes silent, as if we have offended her in some way. Amilee says it happens quite often that she makes some social gaffe, so I shouldn't be too worried. Sure enough, the woman seems to forget the slight fairly quickly and I'm back to making them laugh with my poor attempts at pronunciation.
Early to bed because I'm very, very tired.
Next day, we're in one of the classrooms of the village school, covering it and ourselves with whitewash (evil stuff -- it's lime based so if you get it in your eye, which I did, it fizzes and pops and burns like hell), followed by light green emulsion, with the help of a couple of local lads . We have fun swapping English and Tigrinia phrases, and singing along to the tapes that Amilee brought. It takes all day but it's very satisfying when we're finished.
I leave about 5.30, carrying a present of freshly-picked corn from one of the lads, Iqualo.
My computer has bugs. Crawly cockroaches that hide under the dust cover and scuttle away when I get close. I zapped them with "Hardy Insect Killer" and it seemed to confuse them just long enough for me to stamp on them. Call me Laurel -- my best friend's Hardy :)
Monday 22nd to Thursday 25th September.
People are finally starting to leave. I go back to the Ministry of Laborious Paperwork on Monday to finally organise my work permit. Then off to the Ministry of Irritation with Ergau from VSO to apply for my resident's permit. By Thursday, it's all sorted.
People are trickling away to their placements. It's chaos. We soon realise that the truck never arrives less than an hour after the supposed time. The first day, the VSO van arrived to carry the entire contents of four or five new homes. Piling the roof of the truck with bikes, chairs, tables, trunks, and beds was hilarious. It didn't work first time so off it came to try again. Took ages and the truck looked like it was going to shed most of it's load well before it arrived.
And off they go. It seems strange to lose some of our party after spending two whole weeks in such intense proximity. As the week goes on, it gets stranger.
I'm off to visit Jo in Shimangus Lalay -- near Serejeka -- on Thursday. She left for her new home on Tuesday, so I figure she's had enough time to settle in. A 20Km cycle from Asmara through lovely country. It's the highlands all the way, so it's green and a gentle ride that curls around the customary blunt hills. There are picturesque streams and lovely valleys. The contours are drawn on the hills with stones, that terrace the slopes in an effort to hold on to the precarious vegetation. Heavy rains will easily wash away the precious trees without some measure to reinforce them. As I leave Asmara, past a small bit of forest, a huge bird of prey swoops down over the ground a few metres in front of me. It's wingspan is easily five foot across and it's far bigger than the usual black kites that swoop around the skies of the city.
Through Emba-derho (literally Chicken Hill, but the name is actually a corruption of something else), about 10Km from Asmara. A pretty town piled up the hillside, while the road cuts through the valley. Kids run out from the side and chase my bike for a while. Another 10Km and I'm in Serejeka.
Where's Jo? I walk along the shops lining the Asmara - Keren road, asking random people if they've seen the tiliano woman. Nobody has. I cycle over to the local secondary school and talk to three teachers there, but they haven't seen her either. They point me back to the town, where the sub-Zoba Ministry of Education office is, but by the time I get back it's 1.30pm: siesta time. So I stop in a cafe in town. They're playing Tigrinian music when I enter and there are three soldiers chewing the fat in one corner. We say hello -- me in my limited Tigrinia, they in polite broken English. When the waitress spots me she changes the tape and puts on some terrible American soft rock instead. I call over and say I like Tigrinian music but she just smiles and says "English music" enthusiastically. The soldiers pretend not to be pissed off that their music has been changed.
After the inevitable egg sandwich ("panino enquacaho") and Coke, I'm off to find the sub-Zoba office. A sleepy guy there called Turuk shows me Jo's office, says she's gone to Asmara, then points me in the direction of her village. Shimangus Lalay lies on a hill across a large lake from Serejeka. I cycle around the lake on a dirt track until the road gets to steep and rocky and I have to push my bike up to the village. Surrounded by small children, I ask everyone I see about the tiliano but nobody can help until a supremely confident teeenage girl walks up, takes my hand and says "this way". Past wattle and daub huts, donkeys, chickens and two churches and she takes me through into a compound. There I meet Jo's neighbour, Rubka, who speaks some English and invites me up to her place for coffee. It turns out to be "bun" -- the full-on coffee ceremony, which means @I'm in for at least three rounds and maybe as many hours. No problem -- there's still no sign of Jo.
After about an hour, and two cups of coffee, Jo turns up, looking really pleased to see me. She can't believe I've managed to find her place. We sit and chat with Rubka for another three or four coffees. Rubka's house is decorated with photographs of herself and friends, and magazine cuttings of Asian fashion models and pop stars. I've seen this before; Eritreans have a thing about Indian beauties. My theory is this: there is quite a lot of teachers from India, who are subsidised by the U.N. and come over here to earn big money, so maybe they become role models for Eritrean women who grow up seeing them teach in their immaculate saris. Maybe, maybe not.
Off across the yard to have a look at Jo's place, and give her the gin I've been carrying around. She seems very settled, and has even learnt to accept the insane sideboard she inherited from the previous occupant (Stanja -- another volunteer). We chat, then it's photo call time with Rubka on the steps of Jo's house. Then she walks me down past the lake back to the road because I want to get back to Asmara before dark. Kids pester us all the way. One is on a donkey, keeping pace then trotting off in front. The others are trying to jump onto my bike. I start off in good humour but it begins to get annoying and they won't take no for an answer until they spot an elderly man with a big stick approaching. Sticks mean status here, so the kids scatter and we're finally left in peace to say goodbye.
I'm glad I left it so late. I got to see Jo, and the evening light on the way back is gorgeous. The hills stand out in sharp relief -- golden sides shimmer. By the time I'm approaching Asmara it's dark, so I'm grateful for the lights of the city ahead.
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Kirsty and I go shopping for beer at the local bar, she chatting away to the gathered men -- only the men spend time in the bars, the women stay at home making injera, doing housework, or preparing coffee. I mumble a few greetings in rubbish Tigrinya but they're happy (amused) with that. The bar is another shack, with wooden benches around the walls that have animal skins draped over them. The bar sells three things: Asmara beer, Asmara gin, and Asmara zibib. The state is the only producer of local alcohol, if you don't count the countless semi-illegal one-woman sewa producers.
Back in the yard, all of us muck in to cook up a really tasty mix of onions, potato, tomato, courgette and pasta under the stars. All around, the sounds of the village and the countryside beyond start to encroach on our conversation. Donkeys bray and dogs howl, replacing the diurnal complaints of the insane chickens. We're all getting slightly drunk on beer and then gin (we drank the bar dry of beer and had to get gin from the local shop, run by the local gossip so I guess she's set up for conversation over the next couple of weeks), and having the type of bullshit conversation that happens in every pub or bar in the world, except here we're sitting in a tiny village surrounded by wildness and strangeness.
I can't get to sleep that night. The crowded room (there are six of us) and the intermittent braying of a nearby donkey keep me awake until the deafening crow of the local cockerel just before dawn. We're all up just after dawn, and a couple of us go for a wander outside outside the compound. In the cool, misty morning air there is a crowd of about 50 faithful gathered in white shrouds in front of the orthodox church. The low sun lights the scene from behind the church, sending long shadows across the ground. Perched on some rocks just outside the compound, Graham and I watch as the congregation respond to the chants of the priest at their head. He, like them, is facing the church and the pink new-born sun, swinging a bell on a chain to keep time with his chants. Their voices are low and hypnotic, the whole scene feels timeless and enchanted.
Breakfast of porridge, laced with chopped fruit and sultanas that may or may not have tiny maggots crawling amongst them (close your eyes and it doesn't matter -- they're too small to taste or be any harm) then off on the aforementioned quest for water.
The minibus picks us up when we get back with the water, and takes us back to Mendefere. At the bus station there is an unexpected queue which we join for a while. Old women blatantly push in front of us -- it's every man and woman for themselves -- placing a rock in the line to save their ill-gotten position while they disappear over to the nearby food stands. A couple of us make the mistake of stepping past the stones until one of the women returns and starts haranguing us in Tigrinya. Eventually we give up and bargain with a local driver to charter a bus back to Asmara.
Friday 19th September -- A.J.s party
A.J. is one of the current I.T. teacher volunteers. He lives on the Keren road, near the edge of the city. The house is on a large plot of land: 3 bedrooms side by side with a yard then flush toilet (the distinction between flush and squat toilets is beginning to become very important to us all) and kitchen off at right angles. The nuildings bound a large garden planted with vegetables. A very atypical volunteer house. Electricity, running water and more than one room are rare indeed.
Almost all the VSO volunteers and staff are gathered for beer, zibib, gin, and a Powerpoint slideshow of photos from the past year, to celebrate the end of the in-country training, and also Susie's (current volunteer) birthday. The current volunteers all look much younger in the photos, it's strange to see how they have changed in just a year. Most of them have lost weight, some of them a lot, but it seems like puppy fat as all but a couple now look lean and healthy.
There's a cake for Susie, in the shape of her beloved bicycle. Miraculously, it was baked over one of the tiny, standard-issue kerosene stoves. It's moist and very tasty.
It's very incongruous, sitting aroung tables in A.J.s garden, watching a slideshow and eating pizza and birthday cake, while outside is red-dust Africa and the local goat market.
Bureaucracy
-----------
Saturday's the day we were all scheduled to leave for our placements and new homes. It doesn't happen, perhaps because we haven't got our resident permits yet although nobody's really sure. In fact, I'm one step behind the others because my work permit application was temporarily lost. They found it on Friday (the photo I'd given them was too big to fit on the card so my file was loitering in a different office to the rest) but the minister wasn't available to sign it so I have to wait until Monday. An unexpected free weekend ...
Saturday 20th and Sunday 21st September -- Another village and a bit of hard graft.
... so, at the party, I committed myself to spending the weekend at the village of an existing volunteer -- Amilee -- to help her paint a classroom before the start of school on Monday.
Emberto is 18Km South of Asmara, an easy cycle along exhaust-choked road, past industrial plants. We park our bikes at a bar just off the main road then walk down a slope into the valley where the village sits. After the road it's a pleasant surprise. A lot bigger than Adi Gual, the village stretches around a bend in a valley, a confusing jumble of houses, bars and shops (it's difficult to distinguish one from the other) edging a broad sweep of crop-packed fields that are almost ready for harvest.
Amilee's house is bigger and more solid than Kirsty's. Still one room plus oustide squat toilet / shower but it has a more permanent feel to it. The inevitable lunatic chickens strut in the yard, and the equally inevitable donkey walks in from time to time, to hoover up the peelings and fruit skins that she throws into the yard. Very little is wasted in a village: donkeys, goats and chickens eat scraps and scrapings, most bought food is wrapped in old newspapers that is then burned with the used toilet tissue and scattered on the vegetable patch. Any packaging is recycled in ingenious ways: plastic water bottles store spices or hold house plants, beer bottle tops clipped around lengths of string make efficient fly deterrent curtains.
Amilee's neighbours -- grandparents to the ubiquitous kids running around -- invite us over for coffee. This will take a while.
They don't speak any English but we get on okay except for a couple of moments where the old woman goes silent, as if we have offended her in some way. Amilee says it happens quite often that she makes some social gaffe, so I shouldn't be too worried. Sure enough, the woman seems to forget the slight fairly quickly and I'm back to making them laugh with my poor attempts at pronunciation.
Early to bed because I'm very, very tired.
Next day, we're in one of the classrooms of the village school, covering it and ourselves with whitewash (evil stuff -- it's lime based so if you get it in your eye, which I did, it fizzes and pops and burns like hell), followed by light green emulsion, with the help of a couple of local lads . We have fun swapping English and Tigrinia phrases, and singing along to the tapes that Amilee brought. It takes all day but it's very satisfying when we're finished.
I leave about 5.30, carrying a present of freshly-picked corn from one of the lads, Iqualo.
My computer has bugs. Crawly cockroaches that hide under the dust cover and scuttle away when I get close. I zapped them with "Hardy Insect Killer" and it seemed to confuse them just long enough for me to stamp on them. Call me Laurel -- my best friend's Hardy :)
Monday 22nd to Thursday 25th September.
People are finally starting to leave. I go back to the Ministry of Laborious Paperwork on Monday to finally organise my work permit. Then off to the Ministry of Irritation with Ergau from VSO to apply for my resident's permit. By Thursday, it's all sorted.
People are trickling away to their placements. It's chaos. We soon realise that the truck never arrives less than an hour after the supposed time. The first day, the VSO van arrived to carry the entire contents of four or five new homes. Piling the roof of the truck with bikes, chairs, tables, trunks, and beds was hilarious. It didn't work first time so off it came to try again. Took ages and the truck looked like it was going to shed most of it's load well before it arrived.
And off they go. It seems strange to lose some of our party after spending two whole weeks in such intense proximity. As the week goes on, it gets stranger.
I'm off to visit Jo in Shimangus Lalay -- near Serejeka -- on Thursday. She left for her new home on Tuesday, so I figure she's had enough time to settle in. A 20Km cycle from Asmara through lovely country. It's the highlands all the way, so it's green and a gentle ride that curls around the customary blunt hills. There are picturesque streams and lovely valleys. The contours are drawn on the hills with stones, that terrace the slopes in an effort to hold on to the precarious vegetation. Heavy rains will easily wash away the precious trees without some measure to reinforce them. As I leave Asmara, past a small bit of forest, a huge bird of prey swoops down over the ground a few metres in front of me. It's wingspan is easily five foot across and it's far bigger than the usual black kites that swoop around the skies of the city.
Through Emba-derho (literally Chicken Hill, but the name is actually a corruption of something else), about 10Km from Asmara. A pretty town piled up the hillside, while the road cuts through the valley. Kids run out from the side and chase my bike for a while. Another 10Km and I'm in Serejeka.
Where's Jo? I walk along the shops lining the Asmara - Keren road, asking random people if they've seen the tiliano woman. Nobody has. I cycle over to the local secondary school and talk to three teachers there, but they haven't seen her either. They point me back to the town, where the sub-Zoba Ministry of Education office is, but by the time I get back it's 1.30pm: siesta time. So I stop in a cafe in town. They're playing Tigrinian music when I enter and there are three soldiers chewing the fat in one corner. We say hello -- me in my limited Tigrinia, they in polite broken English. When the waitress spots me she changes the tape and puts on some terrible American soft rock instead. I call over and say I like Tigrinian music but she just smiles and says "English music" enthusiastically. The soldiers pretend not to be pissed off that their music has been changed.
After the inevitable egg sandwich ("panino enquacaho") and Coke, I'm off to find the sub-Zoba office. A sleepy guy there called Turuk shows me Jo's office, says she's gone to Asmara, then points me in the direction of her village. Shimangus Lalay lies on a hill across a large lake from Serejeka. I cycle around the lake on a dirt track until the road gets to steep and rocky and I have to push my bike up to the village. Surrounded by small children, I ask everyone I see about the tiliano but nobody can help until a supremely confident teeenage girl walks up, takes my hand and says "this way". Past wattle and daub huts, donkeys, chickens and two churches and she takes me through into a compound. There I meet Jo's neighbour, Rubka, who speaks some English and invites me up to her place for coffee. It turns out to be "bun" -- the full-on coffee ceremony, which means @I'm in for at least three rounds and maybe as many hours. No problem -- there's still no sign of Jo.
After about an hour, and two cups of coffee, Jo turns up, looking really pleased to see me. She can't believe I've managed to find her place. We sit and chat with Rubka for another three or four coffees. Rubka's house is decorated with photographs of herself and friends, and magazine cuttings of Asian fashion models and pop stars. I've seen this before; Eritreans have a thing about Indian beauties. My theory is this: there is quite a lot of teachers from India, who are subsidised by the U.N. and come over here to earn big money, so maybe they become role models for Eritrean women who grow up seeing them teach in their immaculate saris. Maybe, maybe not.
Off across the yard to have a look at Jo's place, and give her the gin I've been carrying around. She seems very settled, and has even learnt to accept the insane sideboard she inherited from the previous occupant (Stanja -- another volunteer). We chat, then it's photo call time with Rubka on the steps of Jo's house. Then she walks me down past the lake back to the road because I want to get back to Asmara before dark. Kids pester us all the way. One is on a donkey, keeping pace then trotting off in front. The others are trying to jump onto my bike. I start off in good humour but it begins to get annoying and they won't take no for an answer until they spot an elderly man with a big stick approaching. Sticks mean status here, so the kids scatter and we're finally left in peace to say goodbye.
I'm glad I left it so late. I got to see Jo, and the evening light on the way back is gorgeous. The hills stand out in sharp relief -- golden sides shimmer. By the time I'm approaching Asmara it's dark, so I'm grateful for the lights of the city ahead.
Saturday, October 04, 2003
