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.
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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