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Thursday, November 06, 2003

Curry, Coffee and Catholic Shrines 

The first week in Keren (cont.)

I arrive at the school on Monday. It's a very big school: about 3500 students, aged about 14 to 22, situated at the bottom of the Forto hill, about ten minutes from the town centre. As the friendly old guy at the gate lets me through, and I walk along the path into the school proper, a square of long classroom buildings lies in front, surrounding an uneven basketball pitch. Moving up the slope to the left, I come to an ornate stone building. The store room and vice-director's office are seperated from the records office and staff room by a staircase. Two sets of stone steps rise up from either side and meet on a balcony, enclosed by a design of interlaced circles made, again, of stone. This is where the Administrator's and the Director's offices are, plus three more classrooms. The building was lovely once, and still is quite impressive, but parts of it are rotting. The stone circles in the balcony walls have gaps where they have crumbled to dust. Likewise in the stairway. The view from the balcony, however, is fantastic: the Eritrean flag plays in the foreground, competing with the backdrop of the Southern hills. Below this, the students run around or lounge around -- a sea of blue pullovers, many threadbare.

Many of the teachers are sitting under a tree outside the store room, relaxing in the shade. After introducing myself to the director, I return to the shade of the tree to chat with the teachers. Their English is not as good as I'd expected, so it takes a while to get a conversation going but it works eventually. Many students and teachers haven't turned up, so most classes are not being held. This is common in the first week or so of term: students work with their family or have a long way to travle, so they are reluctant to come into school if lessons haven't fully started. The teachers too come in from all around (many of them are not from Keren) and do not want to make the journey if there are no students to teach. Eventually, there will be enough students and teachers to make lessons viable. Eventually, but not yet. I leave in low spirits.

There's little to do at the school for the rest of the week, except administrative stuff, so I'm grateful to meet up with Neil and Danny during the week, and take them to the usual sites: the Keren hotel, Aragay's, Bar Elen Stuttgart.

At the weekend, I'm back in Asmara, ostensibly for an I.T. meeting but also to celebrate Sarah's birthday. The apartment she shares with Suzy is straight out of Europe: big bedroom, big kitchen, big bathroom with flushing toilet and flowing taps. On the first floor, there's even a balcony. Luxury, and a big contrast with my two rooms and squat toilet!

Suzy, Doctor Dave and some others have created an incredible feast. Indian-themed, with onion bhajis, aubergine bhajis, curried eggs and curried other things, rice and loads more rice. It's a real feat to produce so much food from a meagre gas stove. There's a lot of gin and araki around, plus some rank Asmara wine that has a musky taste of mould. After sufficient araki, we start on the flaming Sambuccas: take a mouthful, be sure to wipe your lips carefully then tip your head back and light it. Looks mad and tastes nice, as the tang of aniseed and lightly burned flesh slips down your throat.

Week Two

Lessons are still erratic, but I'm starting mine. There are no computers for the students though, so it's theory theory theory. I'm grateful for a break from the monotony when Jo arrives mid-week. She got the bus without any problems then found out where I was (Aragay's -- where else?) from Nigusse, one of the teachers at the school ("Nigusse means King!", he is proud of proclaiming).

I have some work the next couple of days, but we meet for lunch each day and find time to visit a couple of sights. The Italian cemetary is an immaculate parade of white gravestones, steps at the back leading up to a stone monument. So many of the graves are anonymous, particularly those of the Eritreans who fought alongside the Italians against the British in 1941. We sit on the steps of the monument for a while, talking, thinking about the place, and cooking in the unremitting sun.

We continue walking out of town to the shrine of Mariam Dearit (the Virgin Mary). After about a kilometre or so, we enter the park and walk slowly along the lane of trees, grass -- a rarity in Keren -- on either side. Occasionally we pass an old guy lying under a tree. These men might be picnicking or they might live there: they have bedding and stoves with them and seem pretty established under their trees. We sit for a while under a tree of our own, for some respite from the sun.

The shrine is in an ancient baobab tree. Several tough stems meet together to form a hollow tree that spreads out into a profusion of branches and lush leafery. The tree is huge -- a classical shape that's very impressive, particularly in this dry environment. Inside, after taking off our shoes, we feel the texture of the bark, watched over by a small statue of the Madonna.

On the Saturday, I'm off to see Jo at Shimangus Lalai. I get off the bus too early and end up in the new part of Serejeka, a couple of hundred yards from the turn-off to Jo's village. As I'm walking along, a cyclist pulls level and starts chatting in English. His name is Fisatsion, a teacher at one of the local schools. He's friendly so I take him up on his offer of a coke when we get to old Serejeka. Finally, I set off for Jo's. A false start almost immediately as I say hello to an old guy in a field and he starts gesturing at me wildly. It seems I'm walking across his field and he's saying the Eritrean equivalent of "Get orf moy laaarnd!". He's friendly enough when I finally get the message.

When I've completed the climb to Jo's, we're invited in for jebena at Rubka's.

Jebena
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The coffee ceremony is one of the most important and prominent aspects of Eritrean culture. It is a part of the ethos of communal eating, drinking and socialising that glues together the society. The coffee is always prepared by a woman.

There is a stove: a metal box with a tray on top that holds charcoal. The charcoal is placed on a kerosene stove and heated until it catches and begins to glow red. Then it is placed back on the stove and encouraged using a woven grass fan. The raw, grey coffee beans are the roasted in a small long-handled pan called a "menkeshkesh" ("keshkesh" is the sound the beans make as the pan is shaken over the charcoal). When the coffee is nearly cooked, the menkeshkesh is waved under the noses of the participants, who must waft the fumes towards themselves and murmur appreciation of the aroma. The roasting coffee has that wonderful, rich, acrid smell that triggers off the gastric juices and makes my mouth water. The roasted beans are then put into a wooden or clay pot and pounded with an iron or stone rod. Once sufficiently ground, the coffee is funneled into the "jebena". The jebena is a clay vessel: a spherical bowl with a long thin spout, and a small handle in the side. Cold water is poured over the coffee, and spices such as ginger often follow it, then the jebena, stuffed with a wad of grass -- or audio tape, or anything similar that comes to hand -- is perched on the red-hot charcoal to brew.

While the coffee is brewing, corn kernels are put into a pan, covered and heated until they pop. The popcorn is mixed with a little salt. There may also be flat bread -- "Kitcha" -- or other types of raised bread. Kitcha is delicious: gritty wholegrain and chewy. Sometimes the popcorn is laced with small shop-bought biscuits for a sweet contrast.

The boiled, brewed coffee is poured carefully into small, espresso-sized cups called "finjalen", lined with two or three teaspoons of sugar to make a thick coffee syrup, and a finjal is passed to each participant -- oldest male first, then guests. At first, I found the coffee ("bun" in Tigrinya) too sweet at first, but the sugar takes the bitterness away from the spices that are used, and now I take my bun like an Eritrean.

When the jebena is empty, the coffee will be brewed again with fresh water, and again, and maybe again. Subsequent finjals are progressively weaker. It is okay to have one cup and then say that you have had enough, and it is very polite to stay for three or more. You should never, ever leave after the second cup.

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