Wednesday, December 24, 2003
Catching up to Christmas
I'm lagging far behind in this journal. It's nearly Christmas and the last entry referred to Hallowe'en! Time to tell just a few stories, in no particular order, to bring us up to date
Poor Cow.
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I come home late one evening. It's unusual for me to come home late because lessons still haven't started and I'm usually bored with hanging aroung by about 4 o'clock. Anyway, this evening, I'm back just after dark, perhaps about 6.15. Smoke and the smell of cooking...
Smoke and the smell of cooking are emanating from my compound. Nothing too unusual about that, but there is also the sound of voices, lots of voices, mostly male. That is unusual -- Gabriella often has women friends over. In fact there is a constant stream of short, stumpy Bilen women, swaddled in their colourful shawls like Russian dolls, all with similar raisin faces screwed into severe seriousness but ready to light up with enormous smiles and sparkling eyes. No, this time the compound is full of men. Soldiers, mostly.
Now, a large gathering of soldiers is bound to intimidate, but this is Eritrea -- most men under 40 are doing national service. They may not all be in uniform, but they are almost all doing national service: perhaps as teachers, government desk jobs or essential services. The rest are soldiers, in uniform, often with guns. So you get used to the sight of groups of armed soldiers roaming about. But these soldiers are in my compound! Fortunately, I can't see any guns.
Also in the compound, and taking up most of the ground space, are several huge metal bowls. Each is about the size of the bowl I use as a bath, and each is full of roughly-hacked chuncks of meat and bone. Soldiers are squatting over the dishes, in the joint-defying, eternally sustainable squat that most Eritreans perform with ease. The men have smaller bowls of their own and are picking over the meat and talking rapidly. Meanwhile, Mama Gabriella is squatting outside our porch, fanning a stove on which sits a big, wide pan of sizzling, diced meat: the tasters, the samples upon which bargains are made.
So the men are buying meat, and Gabriella is cooking some to prove its quality. She offers me some and, since I haven't eaten yet, I gladly accept. It's a little tough and chewy, like most meat here, but it's good. So that's my dinner sorted. I chew the meat and chew the fat with some nearby soldiers. There's a real party atmosphere: people are joking and laughing, haggling good-naturedly. Stomach full, and head spinning from the effort of broken-English conversation, I go to bed, while the chatter and bargaining continues outside.
Next day, the compound is empty of meat and men and I'm off to work as usual. When I get back, Gabriella comes knocking. Can she use my fridge to store some of the meat that she's saved? Okay, no problem. So in goes a leg or something and... here... this is for you. For me? What is..? oh.
It's a heart. A fully-recognisable heart: two big lumps joined together, the vestiges of valves and stuff coming off at odd angles. Ummm... thanks. So what do you do when you've just been handed a bloody, gamey heart? You fry it up, that's what! So that's what I do. With onions and garlic, and nothing else, I cut the heart into small strips and fry it in a pan. It's absolutely delicious. Not tough, like the meat, but tender and full of the metallic, rich flavour of offal. It's also more than my system is accustomed to. By the time I've finished, I'm flying like a kite. So much rich food in one meal, my system goes into overdrive and I feel euphoric. Unfortunately, I should be getting to bed. I find it very hard to sleep that night.
I find out the story behind the meat market a couple of days later. One of Gabriella's neighbours had a cow. The cow fell pregnant. It gave birth a few days before, but did not recover well from the ordeal. As the cow grew weaker and weaker, it became obvious that it wouldn't survive so it was slaughtered. A live, calf-bearing cow is much more valuable than a carcass so the neighbour stood to lose a lot of money. So Gabriella and the others stepped in to help out, arranging the butchering and sale of the meat to other people in the neighbourhood. The neighbours each paid a little above the standard price for mounds of meat. They made a small sacrifice, got meat in return, and the owner of the cow got some money back on his ill-fated cow.
My friend Isak bought some of the meat for his family. He told me the story of the cow as we sat in his house: me on the baby's bed, him squatting at a bowl of meat carefully, skilfully stripping the bone. There's a real art to that: he starts to cut a thin strip off then, before the knife has reached the end of the meat, begins to cut up behind it, in the opposite direction. He does this several times, until the knife reaches the bone behind the meat. Then, when he pulls the meat away, it is in a thin, continuous ribbon. By his side is a bowl of oil. He runs the ribbon of meat through the oil and sprinkles a little salt onto it. Then he hangs the strip over a washing line, suspended near his bed. The salt will act with the heat to dry the meat in a couple of days, the oil prevents flies from landing on it. Unfortunately, the oil doesn't prevent flies from being attracted by the smell, so Isak's house is soon full of dozens of them.
The dried meat will keep for a couple of weeks, so it is worth a lot to Isak and his family.
Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?
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To catch the bus. This particular chicken is an unwilling passenger on the bus to Asmara. A three-hour journey lays ahead of it, and it won't go without a fight. The woman carrying it finds it difficult to calm the bird down. She has trussed its legs together and carries it onto the bus holding it upside down by the feet. Then, seated by the window, next to me near the back of the bus, she puts the protesting chicken down on the ground and rests her foot on the bit of rope holding its legs. The chicken is restless: it flaps and clucks and jigs its neck about in alarm, occasionally pecking at my foot. The woman serenely ignores it, and the bus pulls off.
We're on our way, and most people -- including me -- have slipped into the usual half-conscious stupor that allows us to cope with long bus journeys. A kind of natural stasis that slows down our bodies' functions and rhythms to make the jolts and lurching and endless Tigrinya music bearable. The torpour is interrupted when the person in the window seat in front of me jumps up slightly, with a look of surprise. Then the person in front of him. It turns into a kind of Mexican wave, rippling along the bus as people shift and jump in their seats. Finally it reaches the front of the bus. The ticket collector, facing us, bends down, picks something up and starts to come towards the back of the bus. He hands the woman her errant bird and mutters something in Tigrinya that probably translates as "I believe this is your chicken, madam." The woman looks embarassed, takes the chicken and, this time, takes off her shoe and wraps the string binding around her big toe. That chicken won't escape again.
The bus continues onwards for a little. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder. Looking around, a guy in one of the seats behind is offering me an egg. Now hard-boiled eggs are commonly sold as a snack on the street and in the bars in Keren, so I think he's offering me a bite to eat. I'm about to thank him when he gestures over to the woman beside me. It's her egg. And it's warm. And now I come to think of it, the egg has a couple of uncooked feathers plastered to it. The chicken couldn't get off the bus to its nest so it laid its egg in transit.
On the Road
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It's Thursday 20th November, and I'm just home from work. I'm excited because I'm taking a week off to visit my folks at their holiday hotel in Kenya. Everything's sorted: the director of the school wrote a letter authorising me to take time off. I took this letter to the boss of the regional Ministry of Education office, and he wrote me another letter giving his authorisation. I then took that letter to the Ministry of Education headquarters in Asmara. After about an hour and a half of desk ping-pong I had a letter from the Minister authorising my leave. This I took to the Ministry of Immigration, who gave me a form to fill in and told me to come back in three days. Standard procedure. So I came back in three days, paid my money and got the exit / re-entry visa required to get out of the country. This is a procedure that caused a lot of consternation among many volunteers last year. It's bureaucracy, certainly, but it works. You just need patience, and it helps if you know what to expect.
So, as I say, it's Thursday afternoon and I'm home a little early to pack for the flight and the journey to Asmara tomorrow. It's an early flight. I check the ticket to see just how early. 3am, 21st November. 3am, 21st November... That means I have to get to the airport in Asmara tonight, not tomorrow! Arrrrrrrggggghhhh!
Rushed packing and I'm hurriedly saying goodbye to the Gabriellas. Rush round to Isak to apologise and try to explain to Barhed because I was due to have food there tonight, then rush to the bus stop hoping to get the last bus.
The last bus has left.
What now?
Well, I could try to hitch. Lots of people do it and it works quite well. Thing is, what fool would be driving to Asmara in the dark? There are no lights on the road, it's in poor condition and there are treacherous twists and turns most of the way. And any fool who is on the road then drives like a lunatic because, well, because they're a fool. So I dismiss the idea of hitching. That only leaves one, expensive option: get a cab.
I walk along the taxi rank, asking if anyone will take me to Asmara. It's a two-hour journey by car so nobody's willing except one guy.
"How much?"
"70 dollars."
"(splutter) 70 dollars???"
"Take it or leave it."
I take it. What choice do I have? It'll be a lot more expensive if I miss my flight and have to book another.
First, we have to stop off at the driver's house. He has a young wife and there are three cute little kids running about. He tells them he's going to spend the night in Asmara and offers me food, which I decline -- I just want to get going now. Then we're off. No we're not: first we need to stop for petrol.
There's a shop at the petrol station selling biscuits, so I buy some. They also sell cigarettes. I'm nervous about this trip -- I'm going to be two hours on a near-deserted road with a stranger who knows I've got lots of dollars on me: I'm putting a lot of trust in this man -- so I buy a packet of cigarettes. I'll have a cigarette if I get to Asmara in one piece, that's the idea. Then the driver comes out of the shop with four beers. Topped. He hands two to me, telling me to join him in a drink before we set off. I could say no, but then he might drink all four, so I down my two beers and watch nervously as he downs his. I'm not waiting until Asmara. I'm going to have a cigarette now.
I've reached the decision point. I either say "No" and go back to Keren, tail between my legs, getting a later flight with the expense and hassle that entails, or I trust my gut feeling that this is not my time to depart this planet. This is the kind of time I regret not having a god to pray to, but I'll go with my instinct. After all, he's a friendly guy. Let's just have one more cigarette.
Now we're off. He's chatty, this guy, but he doesn't seem affected by the beers. Fortunately, Asmara beer is not very strong. He's Tigre, so that's his first language. Second language is Arabic, third Tigrinya and fourth is English. So his English is not great, but we get along fine. The usual thing with key words, incongruous phrases and lots of gesticulation, which worries me a bit as he takes his hands off the wheel to put his point across. The road twists and turns under us, massive lorries come hurtling down the mountainside towards us, horns screaming to let us know that they're not going to budge or slow down for our benefit. The driver does a fine job of navigating the pitch-black road, deftly avoiding sand, rocks and lorries. We stop off after about half an hour or so, to say hello to one of the driver's girlfriends. Girlfriend? You mean..? Sure. There's four or five on this road and a bunch of others in different directions out of Keren. Some of them have children. I don't have enough Tigrinya to ask...
After another beer while chatting to his girlfriend, we set off again. Maybe it's the beer, but I'm starting to enjoy myself. He's a very good driver and we're getting on well, and making good time. In any case, I don't have to be at the airport until about midnight, so I start to suggest that we both stop off for food in Asmara, then he can drive me to the airport. Then, about 45 minutes from Asmara, the car gets a flat. It's amazing. Fortunatle, we're at a strip of road with a couple of shops on and a few soldiers milling about. Immediately, there's a bunch of people around the cab, helping lift it to put the jack under, and struggling with the wheel nuts. It's not too long before the wheel has been changed, we've said goodbye to the soldiers and we're on our way again, a little colder from standing out in the highland night air. No beer this time, thankfully.
Finally, we arrive in Asmara. I have a celebratory cigarette, and we start thinking about somewhere to eat. The driver has a brother-in-law who runs a cafe near the market area, so that's where he suggests. We fetch up at this anonymous-looking doorway that shows no indication of being a cafe but, sure enough, up some stairs is the smell of food. The driver's brother-in-law is muslim, so there is no beer at the cafe, to my relief. (In fact. We settle down to a really good meal of liver and kidneys, mopped up with injera. This is the first time I've been into an ordinary restaurant in Asmara, catering for local people. It makes a refreshing change from the usual pizza and pasta places.
By now, it's abount 11pm, so we drive off to the airport and I arrive safely well before booking in. I don't care that I have about three and a half hours before my flight -- at least I'm here and I'm not going to miss it.
In the airport is another early arrival. A little guy from Bangladesh called Ali. Ali is short, dressed in a sharp black suit and tie, and hugging a huge leather briefcase. He's jumpy and nervous, chatty in an English that I find almost incomprehensible. He's a date salesman, and he's been in Asmara scouting the fruit market and shops for potential outlets. With hours to kill before the flight, I'm grateful to have someone to talk to. After about half an hour, however, I need to escape. The guy is so intense. Friendly, but he comes right up to my face when he speaks, and he talks so quickly and disjointedly that I get very tired trying to respond. Eventually, I pull out the packet of cigarettes, walk outside, and light up. Just to get away.
I Live to Dive Another Day
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I had a fantastic time in Mombasa. I took my PADI advanced qualification: swam with big turtles and small sharks, octopi and unicorn fish. I ate delicious ice-cream on the beach, and shellfish on a dhow. I fed cattle-feed to giraffes and watched monkeys climbing the balconies of the hotel to avoid the pouring rain. Best of all, I met up with my parents. They'd brought provisions, and photographs of my family, especially my new niece. They'd also brought a cassette of messages from the family, and a video of the baby. It was great to see them, and great to hear and see the stuff they'd brought. I was even honoured by a dancing procession, headed by a flaming torch, that wove through the hotel restaurant to my table, to present me with a birthday cake on my last night there.
Friday comes around and we take a taxi to the airport. Far too early for the short hop over to Nairobi but I don't know that until I'm through customs. Then all I can do is wait for three hours in a deserted lounge, with only a small bar for comfort. Should've had a coffee with the folks outside the airport instead.
I get to Nairobi and through customs once more and do a little duty-free shopping. As I approach the departure gate, I hear a familiar voice calling out. Ali from the flight out is here, on the same flight back as me. Oh joy. But hadn't he said he was going to South Africa next? Change of plan. Isn't it great to meet up again? Frankly, no. I've had a relaxing week in Kenya, the last thing I want is winding up again by my little clockwork friend. So I say have a good flight then lose myself in another bunch of people waiting for the flight. I make sure I'm sitting well apart from him on the plane.
When I get into Asmara airport, there's a problem with my passport. When I left Eritrea, they forgot to stamp the visa. So the official has to look through the files for the exit card that I filled in before boarding the plane out. It takes about an hour of searching. I'd been n braced for some sort of delay like this, so I light up a philosophical cigarette.
Finally, it's sorted out by me filling in a new exit card. A classic example of paperwork overtaking in importance the procedure it's designed to facilitate: nobody minds much that I'm filling out the exit card after I've just got back, as long as there is an exit card with my signature on it, and the date agrees with the one they then stamp on my visa, and that date falls before the date of my re-entry into Eritrea, then all is okay. Of all the gods that I refuse to worship, the God of The Rubber Stamp is the most terrible.
Birthday Bash
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A low-key affair, this. I'm still a little spaced out from the flight and the aftermath of the holiday in Kenya. I meet with Jo on the Saturday and she sets about helping me decide what to do for the day. Spinach canneloni at the open-air Castello's with a bunch of people, then on to a cafe for coffee and a dish of ricotta and honey. Ricotta and honey! A six-inch plate, half covered in ricotta, half in runny honey, and some decent bread to mop it up. What a marvellous invention!
From there, we book into the Capri pension -- the one with the ice-cream parlour below -- and I get my presents.
Later, Jo and I have a lovely meal, with lovely wine, at the Rendezvous, under Jimi's approving gaze. Then we meet up with a bunch of VSOs at a table outside the American bar. Jo's bought me a cake from a local "pastry" and stuck some birthday candles in it. Bless!
We round the night off with a raucous round of Tequila slammers at Bar Zula. Tequila: It makes me very happy.
A Cautionary Tale
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Pete celebrated his birthday on 6th December. A bunch of us went to China Star, a Chinese restaurant in Asmara. Because it's Chinese, it's relatively very expensive: an average pizza-plus-beer costs about 40 nfa whereas a meal at the China Star weighs in at around 120 nfa. A luxury then, considering our wages work out to about 1400 nfa a month.
Pete is a sociable guy so he posted a note on his staff-room wall in Himbirto, inviting any teacher colleagues who might want to join him. A little later, one of the teachers approached him and said "You are a very generous man. This will be expensive for you." Pete had forgotten that it's customary here for the person who invites to pay for their guests' meals.
"Hmmm," thought Pete, "it probably won't be too much. After all, who's going to travel from Himberto to Asmara just for a meal?". Unfortunately, there is a teachers' meeting on the day of the meal. In Asmara.
About ten of the teachers turned up at the restaurant, ate and drank, then left straight away, with Pete picking up their bill.
Some of us put some money towards the extra, so Pete wasn't too out of pocket in the end.
The Earth Moves
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Friday, 12th December.
Alex -- one of "our" bunch of VSOs is celebrating his birthday. Alex lives in She'eb Seleba -- a small village on the top of a mountain, not far from the town of Elabored, itself about 20 Km from Keren.
The plan is I'll meet Jo at about 5.30 at a pension called the "Anseba Hotel". So I'm at the bus stop in Keren by 4pm: plenty of time, I think. Not so: there is a group of people waiting but word gets through that no more buses are running to Elabored. People power will out! We march en masse to the bus administrator's office, ubiquitous stroppy old geezer at our head. After much shouting, and some near fatal swishes of the old geezer's standard issue stick, the administrator caves in and agrees to organise a bus for us. "Awet N'Hafash!" "Victory to the masses!"
So I finally arrive in Elabored a whole hour late, and a guy I got talking to on the bus kindly shows me to the pension. No sign of Jo so I head back to the main road. After a couple of buses pass with no Jo on board, I give up and head back to the pension. It's a seedy place: a bar / cafe at the front, a yard at the back with three or four rooms in a row on the other side of the yard. The room I'm given has a bed, a chair, and a mosquito net and nothing else. The plasterwork is rough, the paint is peeling, and the wooden door is shrunken with rot and age. It's actually very atmospheric and I like it a lot. The owner is a short, squat woman with a sour face.
I've picked up another new friend from the bus-stop -- Habtom -- who helps me book in and order some food. Tucking into some goat and injera, we chat about religion, politics, and prostitution. It's at this point that I realise what kind of hotel this is. "Oh yes," says Habtom, "the owner's daughter is standing outside in the hope that she will meet a man."
I've resigned myself to spending the night alone and hopefully meeting Jo in the morning when in she walks. A wave of relief sweeps through me. She'd decided to hitch-hike up to Elabored and was really pleased to get a lift with a whole bunch of people very quickly. The passengers began to peel off at various stops, however, and Jo was left with just the driver for company -- a middle-aged guy called Matteus. Matteus, it turned out, has a lot of friends on the route and so he stopped to say hello to each of them. Finally, when they were near to Elabored, they stopped at a house for jebena. A journey that would normally have taken about an hour and a half took them about four hours, and they finally arrive at the pension at about 8pm.
Matteus is proving difficult to shake off, and Jo is looking stressed so we make our excuses, pay for our new friends' drinks, and escape to the room.
Next day we get the bus up to She'eb. The bus that we are variously told isn't running that day, won't be there for another hour, doesn't leave from that spot, it leaves from over there etc. Many people seem never to have heard of She'eb, many know of it but can't tell us where it is. It's a bizarre confusion of misinformation but we eventually find the right bus and set off.
After about an hour and a half of rocky uphill we arrive, and there's Alex to greet us.
She'eb Seleba is a very picturesque village perched on the highest point for miles. From the village, we can see over to Adi Teklezan one way, and down into Keren in the other direction, across beautiful mountain peaks and valleys. When the other pilgrims have arrived -- Greg and Hannah -- we go for a walk and end up sitting on a huge, flat boulder cropping out from the hill and overlooking the road up. We're chatting for a while when suddenly there's this buzzing feeling under us. A vibration that lasts a couple of seconds. Greg hasn't felt anything because he's squatting on his feet but the rest of us jump up and jump back off the boulder. An earthquake! We just felt a bona-fide earthquake! We eye the boulder suspiciously, looking for signs of movement then decide to move on.
Alex has made some "dmu dmu". It's a home brew made from rice, sugar and yeast. The name comes from the Tigrinya word for "cat", because if you drink the stuff, you end up on all fours, purring like a pussycat. He has made 30 litres. A posse of teachers from his school have joined us for the party and we get stuck into the dmu dmu. It tastes good. A slightly sharp beer taste, quite smooth and very easy to drink. It doesn't feel like we're getting drunk either. We're sitting around the room he's borrowed from the teachers, chatting sociably and coherently. Then one of his friends puts on some music. Suddenly, most of us are up dancing like nutters. I've rediscovered my Tigrinya jive mojo from the culture evening and I'm shrugging my shoulders like there's no tomorrow. The teacher's are rolling around, and we're all drunkenly slapping each other and making appreciative hissing noises.
Just as suddenly, the magic wears off, and we're all completely shattered. Time for bed.
The next day, we've all got insistent, nagging headaches. Nothing too major, just background hum, but we've got a three hour walk down the mountain ahead of us. We make it okay, led part of the way by an old guy with a stick, who leaps down the boulders with enviable agility. We prove too slow for him in the end, so he runs off into the distance at a pace I'd find hard to keep up on even ground.
By the time we reach Elabored, we're all knackered so Alex, Hannah and Greg head off for some food while Jo and I take the bus into Keren and eat our fill of ful there. We round the weekend off with a relaxing day of doing nothing much in Keren.
Poor Cow.
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I come home late one evening. It's unusual for me to come home late because lessons still haven't started and I'm usually bored with hanging aroung by about 4 o'clock. Anyway, this evening, I'm back just after dark, perhaps about 6.15. Smoke and the smell of cooking...
Smoke and the smell of cooking are emanating from my compound. Nothing too unusual about that, but there is also the sound of voices, lots of voices, mostly male. That is unusual -- Gabriella often has women friends over. In fact there is a constant stream of short, stumpy Bilen women, swaddled in their colourful shawls like Russian dolls, all with similar raisin faces screwed into severe seriousness but ready to light up with enormous smiles and sparkling eyes. No, this time the compound is full of men. Soldiers, mostly.
Now, a large gathering of soldiers is bound to intimidate, but this is Eritrea -- most men under 40 are doing national service. They may not all be in uniform, but they are almost all doing national service: perhaps as teachers, government desk jobs or essential services. The rest are soldiers, in uniform, often with guns. So you get used to the sight of groups of armed soldiers roaming about. But these soldiers are in my compound! Fortunately, I can't see any guns.
Also in the compound, and taking up most of the ground space, are several huge metal bowls. Each is about the size of the bowl I use as a bath, and each is full of roughly-hacked chuncks of meat and bone. Soldiers are squatting over the dishes, in the joint-defying, eternally sustainable squat that most Eritreans perform with ease. The men have smaller bowls of their own and are picking over the meat and talking rapidly. Meanwhile, Mama Gabriella is squatting outside our porch, fanning a stove on which sits a big, wide pan of sizzling, diced meat: the tasters, the samples upon which bargains are made.
So the men are buying meat, and Gabriella is cooking some to prove its quality. She offers me some and, since I haven't eaten yet, I gladly accept. It's a little tough and chewy, like most meat here, but it's good. So that's my dinner sorted. I chew the meat and chew the fat with some nearby soldiers. There's a real party atmosphere: people are joking and laughing, haggling good-naturedly. Stomach full, and head spinning from the effort of broken-English conversation, I go to bed, while the chatter and bargaining continues outside.
Next day, the compound is empty of meat and men and I'm off to work as usual. When I get back, Gabriella comes knocking. Can she use my fridge to store some of the meat that she's saved? Okay, no problem. So in goes a leg or something and... here... this is for you. For me? What is..? oh.
It's a heart. A fully-recognisable heart: two big lumps joined together, the vestiges of valves and stuff coming off at odd angles. Ummm... thanks. So what do you do when you've just been handed a bloody, gamey heart? You fry it up, that's what! So that's what I do. With onions and garlic, and nothing else, I cut the heart into small strips and fry it in a pan. It's absolutely delicious. Not tough, like the meat, but tender and full of the metallic, rich flavour of offal. It's also more than my system is accustomed to. By the time I've finished, I'm flying like a kite. So much rich food in one meal, my system goes into overdrive and I feel euphoric. Unfortunately, I should be getting to bed. I find it very hard to sleep that night.
I find out the story behind the meat market a couple of days later. One of Gabriella's neighbours had a cow. The cow fell pregnant. It gave birth a few days before, but did not recover well from the ordeal. As the cow grew weaker and weaker, it became obvious that it wouldn't survive so it was slaughtered. A live, calf-bearing cow is much more valuable than a carcass so the neighbour stood to lose a lot of money. So Gabriella and the others stepped in to help out, arranging the butchering and sale of the meat to other people in the neighbourhood. The neighbours each paid a little above the standard price for mounds of meat. They made a small sacrifice, got meat in return, and the owner of the cow got some money back on his ill-fated cow.
My friend Isak bought some of the meat for his family. He told me the story of the cow as we sat in his house: me on the baby's bed, him squatting at a bowl of meat carefully, skilfully stripping the bone. There's a real art to that: he starts to cut a thin strip off then, before the knife has reached the end of the meat, begins to cut up behind it, in the opposite direction. He does this several times, until the knife reaches the bone behind the meat. Then, when he pulls the meat away, it is in a thin, continuous ribbon. By his side is a bowl of oil. He runs the ribbon of meat through the oil and sprinkles a little salt onto it. Then he hangs the strip over a washing line, suspended near his bed. The salt will act with the heat to dry the meat in a couple of days, the oil prevents flies from landing on it. Unfortunately, the oil doesn't prevent flies from being attracted by the smell, so Isak's house is soon full of dozens of them.
The dried meat will keep for a couple of weeks, so it is worth a lot to Isak and his family.
Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?
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To catch the bus. This particular chicken is an unwilling passenger on the bus to Asmara. A three-hour journey lays ahead of it, and it won't go without a fight. The woman carrying it finds it difficult to calm the bird down. She has trussed its legs together and carries it onto the bus holding it upside down by the feet. Then, seated by the window, next to me near the back of the bus, she puts the protesting chicken down on the ground and rests her foot on the bit of rope holding its legs. The chicken is restless: it flaps and clucks and jigs its neck about in alarm, occasionally pecking at my foot. The woman serenely ignores it, and the bus pulls off.
We're on our way, and most people -- including me -- have slipped into the usual half-conscious stupor that allows us to cope with long bus journeys. A kind of natural stasis that slows down our bodies' functions and rhythms to make the jolts and lurching and endless Tigrinya music bearable. The torpour is interrupted when the person in the window seat in front of me jumps up slightly, with a look of surprise. Then the person in front of him. It turns into a kind of Mexican wave, rippling along the bus as people shift and jump in their seats. Finally it reaches the front of the bus. The ticket collector, facing us, bends down, picks something up and starts to come towards the back of the bus. He hands the woman her errant bird and mutters something in Tigrinya that probably translates as "I believe this is your chicken, madam." The woman looks embarassed, takes the chicken and, this time, takes off her shoe and wraps the string binding around her big toe. That chicken won't escape again.
The bus continues onwards for a little. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder. Looking around, a guy in one of the seats behind is offering me an egg. Now hard-boiled eggs are commonly sold as a snack on the street and in the bars in Keren, so I think he's offering me a bite to eat. I'm about to thank him when he gestures over to the woman beside me. It's her egg. And it's warm. And now I come to think of it, the egg has a couple of uncooked feathers plastered to it. The chicken couldn't get off the bus to its nest so it laid its egg in transit.
On the Road
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It's Thursday 20th November, and I'm just home from work. I'm excited because I'm taking a week off to visit my folks at their holiday hotel in Kenya. Everything's sorted: the director of the school wrote a letter authorising me to take time off. I took this letter to the boss of the regional Ministry of Education office, and he wrote me another letter giving his authorisation. I then took that letter to the Ministry of Education headquarters in Asmara. After about an hour and a half of desk ping-pong I had a letter from the Minister authorising my leave. This I took to the Ministry of Immigration, who gave me a form to fill in and told me to come back in three days. Standard procedure. So I came back in three days, paid my money and got the exit / re-entry visa required to get out of the country. This is a procedure that caused a lot of consternation among many volunteers last year. It's bureaucracy, certainly, but it works. You just need patience, and it helps if you know what to expect.
So, as I say, it's Thursday afternoon and I'm home a little early to pack for the flight and the journey to Asmara tomorrow. It's an early flight. I check the ticket to see just how early. 3am, 21st November. 3am, 21st November... That means I have to get to the airport in Asmara tonight, not tomorrow! Arrrrrrrggggghhhh!
Rushed packing and I'm hurriedly saying goodbye to the Gabriellas. Rush round to Isak to apologise and try to explain to Barhed because I was due to have food there tonight, then rush to the bus stop hoping to get the last bus.
The last bus has left.
What now?
Well, I could try to hitch. Lots of people do it and it works quite well. Thing is, what fool would be driving to Asmara in the dark? There are no lights on the road, it's in poor condition and there are treacherous twists and turns most of the way. And any fool who is on the road then drives like a lunatic because, well, because they're a fool. So I dismiss the idea of hitching. That only leaves one, expensive option: get a cab.
I walk along the taxi rank, asking if anyone will take me to Asmara. It's a two-hour journey by car so nobody's willing except one guy.
"How much?"
"70 dollars."
"(splutter) 70 dollars???"
"Take it or leave it."
I take it. What choice do I have? It'll be a lot more expensive if I miss my flight and have to book another.
First, we have to stop off at the driver's house. He has a young wife and there are three cute little kids running about. He tells them he's going to spend the night in Asmara and offers me food, which I decline -- I just want to get going now. Then we're off. No we're not: first we need to stop for petrol.
There's a shop at the petrol station selling biscuits, so I buy some. They also sell cigarettes. I'm nervous about this trip -- I'm going to be two hours on a near-deserted road with a stranger who knows I've got lots of dollars on me: I'm putting a lot of trust in this man -- so I buy a packet of cigarettes. I'll have a cigarette if I get to Asmara in one piece, that's the idea. Then the driver comes out of the shop with four beers. Topped. He hands two to me, telling me to join him in a drink before we set off. I could say no, but then he might drink all four, so I down my two beers and watch nervously as he downs his. I'm not waiting until Asmara. I'm going to have a cigarette now.
I've reached the decision point. I either say "No" and go back to Keren, tail between my legs, getting a later flight with the expense and hassle that entails, or I trust my gut feeling that this is not my time to depart this planet. This is the kind of time I regret not having a god to pray to, but I'll go with my instinct. After all, he's a friendly guy. Let's just have one more cigarette.
Now we're off. He's chatty, this guy, but he doesn't seem affected by the beers. Fortunately, Asmara beer is not very strong. He's Tigre, so that's his first language. Second language is Arabic, third Tigrinya and fourth is English. So his English is not great, but we get along fine. The usual thing with key words, incongruous phrases and lots of gesticulation, which worries me a bit as he takes his hands off the wheel to put his point across. The road twists and turns under us, massive lorries come hurtling down the mountainside towards us, horns screaming to let us know that they're not going to budge or slow down for our benefit. The driver does a fine job of navigating the pitch-black road, deftly avoiding sand, rocks and lorries. We stop off after about half an hour or so, to say hello to one of the driver's girlfriends. Girlfriend? You mean..? Sure. There's four or five on this road and a bunch of others in different directions out of Keren. Some of them have children. I don't have enough Tigrinya to ask...
After another beer while chatting to his girlfriend, we set off again. Maybe it's the beer, but I'm starting to enjoy myself. He's a very good driver and we're getting on well, and making good time. In any case, I don't have to be at the airport until about midnight, so I start to suggest that we both stop off for food in Asmara, then he can drive me to the airport. Then, about 45 minutes from Asmara, the car gets a flat. It's amazing. Fortunatle, we're at a strip of road with a couple of shops on and a few soldiers milling about. Immediately, there's a bunch of people around the cab, helping lift it to put the jack under, and struggling with the wheel nuts. It's not too long before the wheel has been changed, we've said goodbye to the soldiers and we're on our way again, a little colder from standing out in the highland night air. No beer this time, thankfully.
Finally, we arrive in Asmara. I have a celebratory cigarette, and we start thinking about somewhere to eat. The driver has a brother-in-law who runs a cafe near the market area, so that's where he suggests. We fetch up at this anonymous-looking doorway that shows no indication of being a cafe but, sure enough, up some stairs is the smell of food. The driver's brother-in-law is muslim, so there is no beer at the cafe, to my relief. (In fact. We settle down to a really good meal of liver and kidneys, mopped up with injera. This is the first time I've been into an ordinary restaurant in Asmara, catering for local people. It makes a refreshing change from the usual pizza and pasta places.
By now, it's abount 11pm, so we drive off to the airport and I arrive safely well before booking in. I don't care that I have about three and a half hours before my flight -- at least I'm here and I'm not going to miss it.
In the airport is another early arrival. A little guy from Bangladesh called Ali. Ali is short, dressed in a sharp black suit and tie, and hugging a huge leather briefcase. He's jumpy and nervous, chatty in an English that I find almost incomprehensible. He's a date salesman, and he's been in Asmara scouting the fruit market and shops for potential outlets. With hours to kill before the flight, I'm grateful to have someone to talk to. After about half an hour, however, I need to escape. The guy is so intense. Friendly, but he comes right up to my face when he speaks, and he talks so quickly and disjointedly that I get very tired trying to respond. Eventually, I pull out the packet of cigarettes, walk outside, and light up. Just to get away.
I Live to Dive Another Day
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I had a fantastic time in Mombasa. I took my PADI advanced qualification: swam with big turtles and small sharks, octopi and unicorn fish. I ate delicious ice-cream on the beach, and shellfish on a dhow. I fed cattle-feed to giraffes and watched monkeys climbing the balconies of the hotel to avoid the pouring rain. Best of all, I met up with my parents. They'd brought provisions, and photographs of my family, especially my new niece. They'd also brought a cassette of messages from the family, and a video of the baby. It was great to see them, and great to hear and see the stuff they'd brought. I was even honoured by a dancing procession, headed by a flaming torch, that wove through the hotel restaurant to my table, to present me with a birthday cake on my last night there.
Friday comes around and we take a taxi to the airport. Far too early for the short hop over to Nairobi but I don't know that until I'm through customs. Then all I can do is wait for three hours in a deserted lounge, with only a small bar for comfort. Should've had a coffee with the folks outside the airport instead.
I get to Nairobi and through customs once more and do a little duty-free shopping. As I approach the departure gate, I hear a familiar voice calling out. Ali from the flight out is here, on the same flight back as me. Oh joy. But hadn't he said he was going to South Africa next? Change of plan. Isn't it great to meet up again? Frankly, no. I've had a relaxing week in Kenya, the last thing I want is winding up again by my little clockwork friend. So I say have a good flight then lose myself in another bunch of people waiting for the flight. I make sure I'm sitting well apart from him on the plane.
When I get into Asmara airport, there's a problem with my passport. When I left Eritrea, they forgot to stamp the visa. So the official has to look through the files for the exit card that I filled in before boarding the plane out. It takes about an hour of searching. I'd been n braced for some sort of delay like this, so I light up a philosophical cigarette.
Finally, it's sorted out by me filling in a new exit card. A classic example of paperwork overtaking in importance the procedure it's designed to facilitate: nobody minds much that I'm filling out the exit card after I've just got back, as long as there is an exit card with my signature on it, and the date agrees with the one they then stamp on my visa, and that date falls before the date of my re-entry into Eritrea, then all is okay. Of all the gods that I refuse to worship, the God of The Rubber Stamp is the most terrible.
Birthday Bash
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A low-key affair, this. I'm still a little spaced out from the flight and the aftermath of the holiday in Kenya. I meet with Jo on the Saturday and she sets about helping me decide what to do for the day. Spinach canneloni at the open-air Castello's with a bunch of people, then on to a cafe for coffee and a dish of ricotta and honey. Ricotta and honey! A six-inch plate, half covered in ricotta, half in runny honey, and some decent bread to mop it up. What a marvellous invention!
From there, we book into the Capri pension -- the one with the ice-cream parlour below -- and I get my presents.
Later, Jo and I have a lovely meal, with lovely wine, at the Rendezvous, under Jimi's approving gaze. Then we meet up with a bunch of VSOs at a table outside the American bar. Jo's bought me a cake from a local "pastry" and stuck some birthday candles in it. Bless!
We round the night off with a raucous round of Tequila slammers at Bar Zula. Tequila: It makes me very happy.
A Cautionary Tale
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Pete celebrated his birthday on 6th December. A bunch of us went to China Star, a Chinese restaurant in Asmara. Because it's Chinese, it's relatively very expensive: an average pizza-plus-beer costs about 40 nfa whereas a meal at the China Star weighs in at around 120 nfa. A luxury then, considering our wages work out to about 1400 nfa a month.
Pete is a sociable guy so he posted a note on his staff-room wall in Himbirto, inviting any teacher colleagues who might want to join him. A little later, one of the teachers approached him and said "You are a very generous man. This will be expensive for you." Pete had forgotten that it's customary here for the person who invites to pay for their guests' meals.
"Hmmm," thought Pete, "it probably won't be too much. After all, who's going to travel from Himberto to Asmara just for a meal?". Unfortunately, there is a teachers' meeting on the day of the meal. In Asmara.
About ten of the teachers turned up at the restaurant, ate and drank, then left straight away, with Pete picking up their bill.
Some of us put some money towards the extra, so Pete wasn't too out of pocket in the end.
The Earth Moves
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Friday, 12th December.
Alex -- one of "our" bunch of VSOs is celebrating his birthday. Alex lives in She'eb Seleba -- a small village on the top of a mountain, not far from the town of Elabored, itself about 20 Km from Keren.
The plan is I'll meet Jo at about 5.30 at a pension called the "Anseba Hotel". So I'm at the bus stop in Keren by 4pm: plenty of time, I think. Not so: there is a group of people waiting but word gets through that no more buses are running to Elabored. People power will out! We march en masse to the bus administrator's office, ubiquitous stroppy old geezer at our head. After much shouting, and some near fatal swishes of the old geezer's standard issue stick, the administrator caves in and agrees to organise a bus for us. "Awet N'Hafash!" "Victory to the masses!"
So I finally arrive in Elabored a whole hour late, and a guy I got talking to on the bus kindly shows me to the pension. No sign of Jo so I head back to the main road. After a couple of buses pass with no Jo on board, I give up and head back to the pension. It's a seedy place: a bar / cafe at the front, a yard at the back with three or four rooms in a row on the other side of the yard. The room I'm given has a bed, a chair, and a mosquito net and nothing else. The plasterwork is rough, the paint is peeling, and the wooden door is shrunken with rot and age. It's actually very atmospheric and I like it a lot. The owner is a short, squat woman with a sour face.
I've picked up another new friend from the bus-stop -- Habtom -- who helps me book in and order some food. Tucking into some goat and injera, we chat about religion, politics, and prostitution. It's at this point that I realise what kind of hotel this is. "Oh yes," says Habtom, "the owner's daughter is standing outside in the hope that she will meet a man."
I've resigned myself to spending the night alone and hopefully meeting Jo in the morning when in she walks. A wave of relief sweeps through me. She'd decided to hitch-hike up to Elabored and was really pleased to get a lift with a whole bunch of people very quickly. The passengers began to peel off at various stops, however, and Jo was left with just the driver for company -- a middle-aged guy called Matteus. Matteus, it turned out, has a lot of friends on the route and so he stopped to say hello to each of them. Finally, when they were near to Elabored, they stopped at a house for jebena. A journey that would normally have taken about an hour and a half took them about four hours, and they finally arrive at the pension at about 8pm.
Matteus is proving difficult to shake off, and Jo is looking stressed so we make our excuses, pay for our new friends' drinks, and escape to the room.
Next day we get the bus up to She'eb. The bus that we are variously told isn't running that day, won't be there for another hour, doesn't leave from that spot, it leaves from over there etc. Many people seem never to have heard of She'eb, many know of it but can't tell us where it is. It's a bizarre confusion of misinformation but we eventually find the right bus and set off.
After about an hour and a half of rocky uphill we arrive, and there's Alex to greet us.
She'eb Seleba is a very picturesque village perched on the highest point for miles. From the village, we can see over to Adi Teklezan one way, and down into Keren in the other direction, across beautiful mountain peaks and valleys. When the other pilgrims have arrived -- Greg and Hannah -- we go for a walk and end up sitting on a huge, flat boulder cropping out from the hill and overlooking the road up. We're chatting for a while when suddenly there's this buzzing feeling under us. A vibration that lasts a couple of seconds. Greg hasn't felt anything because he's squatting on his feet but the rest of us jump up and jump back off the boulder. An earthquake! We just felt a bona-fide earthquake! We eye the boulder suspiciously, looking for signs of movement then decide to move on.
Alex has made some "dmu dmu". It's a home brew made from rice, sugar and yeast. The name comes from the Tigrinya word for "cat", because if you drink the stuff, you end up on all fours, purring like a pussycat. He has made 30 litres. A posse of teachers from his school have joined us for the party and we get stuck into the dmu dmu. It tastes good. A slightly sharp beer taste, quite smooth and very easy to drink. It doesn't feel like we're getting drunk either. We're sitting around the room he's borrowed from the teachers, chatting sociably and coherently. Then one of his friends puts on some music. Suddenly, most of us are up dancing like nutters. I've rediscovered my Tigrinya jive mojo from the culture evening and I'm shrugging my shoulders like there's no tomorrow. The teacher's are rolling around, and we're all drunkenly slapping each other and making appreciative hissing noises.
Just as suddenly, the magic wears off, and we're all completely shattered. Time for bed.
The next day, we've all got insistent, nagging headaches. Nothing too major, just background hum, but we've got a three hour walk down the mountain ahead of us. We make it okay, led part of the way by an old guy with a stick, who leaps down the boulders with enviable agility. We prove too slow for him in the end, so he runs off into the distance at a pace I'd find hard to keep up on even ground.
By the time we reach Elabored, we're all knackered so Alex, Hannah and Greg head off for some food while Jo and I take the bus into Keren and eat our fill of ful there. We round the weekend off with a relaxing day of doing nothing much in Keren.
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