Friday, December 05, 2003
Towns and villages
Jo lives in a village, I live in a town. She has little access to the trappings of a town: the variety of food in the markets, the cafes and restaurants, a wide range of shops, even a cinema (although I've never seen an English-language film on show there). There is a vegetable market spread along the road running through Serejeka, but it mostly sells just the staple tomatoes, onions, garlic and potatoes. There are a few small cafes in Serejeka too, but they mostly offer just the staple "panino enquacaho" (egg sandwich) and the omnipresent Coke. There is definitely no cinema. There is, however, the generosity and friendliness that separates villages from towns the world over.
One day, we go exploring. There's a school that Jo has visited a little way behind Serejeka, so we set off for a walk. We walk around the outside of the town then start to mount the hill. The path is rubble-strewn but not too bad, and not too steep. Nevertheless, I'm out of breath fairly soon, blaming it on the altitude because Jo is barely puffing. That's when the kids descend upon us. A dozen perhaps? They gather around the slopes either side of the path, staring intently at us. We pretend to ignore them and carry on talking to each other. When we set off again, we can hear them following behind us, whispering. They're whispering and giggling quietly amongst themselves -- none of them dares say anything to us although it's obvious they are busting to. Finally, one little girl takes the lead. "What is your name?". I've heard this one before. "My name is Gavin. What is your name?" She tells us, very slowly, very deliberately "My. Name. Is. ..." (I've forgotten her name!). She's a bright kid, very intelligent, and Jo's soon holding a conversation with her and the others. In fact it's mostly counting and sign language but it's a connection. The other kids are entranced. One little boy has lost all inhibition and is now running in front of me, shooting at me with a loaded twig. This is my territory: the expert at dramatic pantomime death. The little boy thinks it's hilarious and shoots me agaian and again and again until I'm full of holes and leaking like a collander.
The little girl is in her element now. We carry on walking with the kids trailing behind, except for the little boy sniper taking potshots at me from behind strategic clumps of grass. The bright little girl gets bolder and starts showing off her vocabulary. The problem is, she doesn't know any phrases to use apart from "what is your ...", so we get "What is your rock?", "What is your flower?", "What is your donkey?" The two of us stride up the hill, grinning.
When we reach a certain point, the kids stop. This is the end of their territory. I can't see an obvious boundary but there must be one. I still haven't learnt to read the landscape like an Eritrean, so I miss the points of reference they must use. Whatever the reason, the kids know they mustn't go further so we carry on in peace. The landscape is beautiful. Looking out over fields of multiple shades of green, with the occasional smudge of yellow, lined with intermittent dashes of pink clay, it's hard to believe this country is plagued by drought. It's a big contrast with Keren.
After walking for a while, hunger pangs start to kick in. Time to get back to Serejeka's cafes. The kids are waiting for us and tag along behind as we walk through their village. Three old guys are climbing the hill to our left, carrying sacks of corn cobs. The kids dissipate -- they have a healthy fear of old men -- and we end up meeting the men as they get to the top of the hill. Big, big beams on their faces, they are full of "Kemey waelkum?", "Como esta?", "How are you?". One of them grabs my hand to shake it then grips my arm and gestures over to a house, smiling and pleading with me in Tigrinya to join them for "chai". We protest: we're hungry and really want to get to Serejeka for a sandwich. The grip tightens and the smile widens. Nonsense! We are coming in for a cup of tea! Seems we have no choice.
So in we go for chai with these three old guys. Two of them are brothers, it turns out, and the other is a neighbour. They've been harvesting the corn and now they want to share some with us so, despite our protestations, we're dragged inside a house and sat down while they cook corn on the charcoal and brew the tea. There's a knack to eating corn straight off the cob: you hold it with the end pointing away from you and scrape it off, row by row, with your thumb, catching the loosened corn in the same hand. It takes some practice, but it does work. It's especially hard because I don't have the asbestos skin that these guys seem to have, so I have to shift my hold occasionally to cool my hands down. Meanwhile, the old guys are chatting merrily to us in Tigrinya.
After finally saying our goodbyes, we continue down into the town and have a panino in a cafe there. Then we're off back to Shimangus. On the way, there's an elderly woman struggling with two big chairs and a bag. She's got to climb the rubbly hill with all that stuff so we offer to help. She's delighted and hands us the chairs. So there's the three of us trooping up the rocky path to her house, on the way to Jo's in fact. As thanks, she asks us in for... chai. She lives in a hidmo -- a traditional house -- and this is the first chance we've had to see inside one, so we accept. When we get in her family is there: a couple of young girls and a middle-aged man. They are all very, very friendly and do their best to chat to us.
Here's what the hidmo looks like:
Outside, it's a brown mud construction. Squarish in shape, it is roofed by interwoven tree branches that overhang the entrance forming a sort of porch, propped up by more long branches, or perhaps they are young trunks. On the branch roof is a thick layer of turf for insulation. Inside is amazing. Everything is made from a clay and dung mix, so the whole interior is the pink of the local clay. This is moulded to form the features. There are crevices moulded into the walls to serve as storage. More clay / dung has been used to mould a shelf that reaches out from the wall and down a further foot or so to the floor. This extends out a couple of feet and there is a wide, shallow impression at one end that I guess serves as an injera tray. There are two dividing walls made of clay / dung, with a gap in the side instead of a door, and a gap before they reach the ceiling. Perched on one of these is a chicken, eyeing us suspiciously. Behind the wall with the chicken on I can see beds, the other room might be for washing I suppose. There is not a sharp corner in the whole place. Everything is curves and rounded edges. The storage holes are almost oval. It is a very relaxing, comforting environment: everything blends together smoothly with none of the jagged, jarring geometry of most homes (mine included). Very organic. Jo says it reminds her of a set in Star Trek and I know just what she means: one of those planets they land on where the civilisation has forsaken technology for a simple way of life. It is very beautiful and very cleverly designed and constructed.
The back door is open, beyond the bedroom, and at one point a donkey casually walks in for a sniff around. The chicken does not look happy, but then again chickens rarely do.
There is generosity in the towns too, you just have to go a bit further to find it. Jo comes over to Keren one weekend and we go for a walk around town. We visit the British cemetery, the pritine white gravestones arranged in an orderly rebuff of the chaotic tragedy they represent. Many sikhs and muslims from India fought in the British forces. They have their own dedication in the book, and their names are on the gravestones, a contrast to the unnamed Eritreans who lie in the Italian cemetery. Next we visit Kudus Michael -- St. Michael's Church -- a catholic church that nestles close to the hills in the West. We enter the church with the congregation, the nuns, barefoot and all in white, use an entrance on the right of the building. The church is a garish mix of kitsch catholic paraphernalia: bright representations of Mary in vivid, clashing colours. We stay for part of the mass. Women on one side, men on the other, the call and response rebounds in Tigrinya between the two, overlapping like a relay. It's quite hynoptic at first, then monotonous so we move on.
A panino in Sahel Park. This is a really pleasant little park: trees and small avenues fan out from a central fountain that is -- of course -- dry. In a circle around the fountain are small bowers of bamboo with seating under them. Birds and butterflies flit about and caterpillars drop from the trees, nearly landing in our food and drinks. The features are decorated in bright blue, red and white. Brick- and stone-work is red, outlined in white like some tacky English suburban nightmare. The same tape of Tigrinya music is playing here that they play on the Keren - Asmara bus, and everywhere else for that matter. The entrance gate is decorated with painted flowers and an exhortation to "Come in and happy here". So we happy in Sahel park for a little while and a welcome oasis of nature and kitsch it is too.
Then we're off to climb Forto Tigu, the hill built originally by the Turks when they founded Keren, to defend and oversee the town. Now it is home to the EriTV transmitter. It's not too high, and the climb is a fairly easy, albeit stoney, path. As we go, we pass through clouds of small white butterflies that swarm around us. Magical. When we get to the top, the warden comes out of his house to greet us. He's very friendly and invites us in for, ahem, chai. So off we go, into his house. His friend is there, and his three children, perhaps about 5 - 8 years old. We sit and talk for a while, discussing the soap opera showing on the television. It's a drama set in the days of the war of independence. Two fighters are in love, there's another fighter who's jealous etc etc. It's just like any soap anywhere in the world but set in caves and with uzis as props.
The kids come out with us to admire the view. From here you can see almost the whole of Keren and its suburbs. It's a gorgeous view and really shows off the surrounding hills and villages. My school lies at the foot of the hill, to the East. The kids are really cute and good fun. There's a little boy, who latches onto me and so we get to counting in English. The two little girls prefer Jo. When she gives one her binoculars, she poses with them the wrong way around, red lenses glowing. We say our goodbyes to the adults and start the walk down, kids in tow, chatting away. When we get near the bottom, the kids are still with us and now we're getting a little concerned. Shouldn't they be going back up to their father? We exchange a few confused questions but are still none the wiser. No amount of prompting will get the kids to go back, so they follow us into town. Thinking they are going to follow us wherever we go, and not wanting to drag them off too far from the fort, we duck into Aragay's, where we know they won't follow. It seems foolish, but we wait in the cafe for a couple of minutes until the children wander off. Later on we pass the children with their mother, so we breathe a sigh of relief: they weren't just randomly following us after all.
One day, we go exploring. There's a school that Jo has visited a little way behind Serejeka, so we set off for a walk. We walk around the outside of the town then start to mount the hill. The path is rubble-strewn but not too bad, and not too steep. Nevertheless, I'm out of breath fairly soon, blaming it on the altitude because Jo is barely puffing. That's when the kids descend upon us. A dozen perhaps? They gather around the slopes either side of the path, staring intently at us. We pretend to ignore them and carry on talking to each other. When we set off again, we can hear them following behind us, whispering. They're whispering and giggling quietly amongst themselves -- none of them dares say anything to us although it's obvious they are busting to. Finally, one little girl takes the lead. "What is your name?". I've heard this one before. "My name is Gavin. What is your name?" She tells us, very slowly, very deliberately "My. Name. Is. ..." (I've forgotten her name!). She's a bright kid, very intelligent, and Jo's soon holding a conversation with her and the others. In fact it's mostly counting and sign language but it's a connection. The other kids are entranced. One little boy has lost all inhibition and is now running in front of me, shooting at me with a loaded twig. This is my territory: the expert at dramatic pantomime death. The little boy thinks it's hilarious and shoots me agaian and again and again until I'm full of holes and leaking like a collander.
The little girl is in her element now. We carry on walking with the kids trailing behind, except for the little boy sniper taking potshots at me from behind strategic clumps of grass. The bright little girl gets bolder and starts showing off her vocabulary. The problem is, she doesn't know any phrases to use apart from "what is your ...", so we get "What is your rock?", "What is your flower?", "What is your donkey?" The two of us stride up the hill, grinning.
When we reach a certain point, the kids stop. This is the end of their territory. I can't see an obvious boundary but there must be one. I still haven't learnt to read the landscape like an Eritrean, so I miss the points of reference they must use. Whatever the reason, the kids know they mustn't go further so we carry on in peace. The landscape is beautiful. Looking out over fields of multiple shades of green, with the occasional smudge of yellow, lined with intermittent dashes of pink clay, it's hard to believe this country is plagued by drought. It's a big contrast with Keren.
After walking for a while, hunger pangs start to kick in. Time to get back to Serejeka's cafes. The kids are waiting for us and tag along behind as we walk through their village. Three old guys are climbing the hill to our left, carrying sacks of corn cobs. The kids dissipate -- they have a healthy fear of old men -- and we end up meeting the men as they get to the top of the hill. Big, big beams on their faces, they are full of "Kemey waelkum?", "Como esta?", "How are you?". One of them grabs my hand to shake it then grips my arm and gestures over to a house, smiling and pleading with me in Tigrinya to join them for "chai". We protest: we're hungry and really want to get to Serejeka for a sandwich. The grip tightens and the smile widens. Nonsense! We are coming in for a cup of tea! Seems we have no choice.
So in we go for chai with these three old guys. Two of them are brothers, it turns out, and the other is a neighbour. They've been harvesting the corn and now they want to share some with us so, despite our protestations, we're dragged inside a house and sat down while they cook corn on the charcoal and brew the tea. There's a knack to eating corn straight off the cob: you hold it with the end pointing away from you and scrape it off, row by row, with your thumb, catching the loosened corn in the same hand. It takes some practice, but it does work. It's especially hard because I don't have the asbestos skin that these guys seem to have, so I have to shift my hold occasionally to cool my hands down. Meanwhile, the old guys are chatting merrily to us in Tigrinya.
After finally saying our goodbyes, we continue down into the town and have a panino in a cafe there. Then we're off back to Shimangus. On the way, there's an elderly woman struggling with two big chairs and a bag. She's got to climb the rubbly hill with all that stuff so we offer to help. She's delighted and hands us the chairs. So there's the three of us trooping up the rocky path to her house, on the way to Jo's in fact. As thanks, she asks us in for... chai. She lives in a hidmo -- a traditional house -- and this is the first chance we've had to see inside one, so we accept. When we get in her family is there: a couple of young girls and a middle-aged man. They are all very, very friendly and do their best to chat to us.
Here's what the hidmo looks like:
Outside, it's a brown mud construction. Squarish in shape, it is roofed by interwoven tree branches that overhang the entrance forming a sort of porch, propped up by more long branches, or perhaps they are young trunks. On the branch roof is a thick layer of turf for insulation. Inside is amazing. Everything is made from a clay and dung mix, so the whole interior is the pink of the local clay. This is moulded to form the features. There are crevices moulded into the walls to serve as storage. More clay / dung has been used to mould a shelf that reaches out from the wall and down a further foot or so to the floor. This extends out a couple of feet and there is a wide, shallow impression at one end that I guess serves as an injera tray. There are two dividing walls made of clay / dung, with a gap in the side instead of a door, and a gap before they reach the ceiling. Perched on one of these is a chicken, eyeing us suspiciously. Behind the wall with the chicken on I can see beds, the other room might be for washing I suppose. There is not a sharp corner in the whole place. Everything is curves and rounded edges. The storage holes are almost oval. It is a very relaxing, comforting environment: everything blends together smoothly with none of the jagged, jarring geometry of most homes (mine included). Very organic. Jo says it reminds her of a set in Star Trek and I know just what she means: one of those planets they land on where the civilisation has forsaken technology for a simple way of life. It is very beautiful and very cleverly designed and constructed.
The back door is open, beyond the bedroom, and at one point a donkey casually walks in for a sniff around. The chicken does not look happy, but then again chickens rarely do.
There is generosity in the towns too, you just have to go a bit further to find it. Jo comes over to Keren one weekend and we go for a walk around town. We visit the British cemetery, the pritine white gravestones arranged in an orderly rebuff of the chaotic tragedy they represent. Many sikhs and muslims from India fought in the British forces. They have their own dedication in the book, and their names are on the gravestones, a contrast to the unnamed Eritreans who lie in the Italian cemetery. Next we visit Kudus Michael -- St. Michael's Church -- a catholic church that nestles close to the hills in the West. We enter the church with the congregation, the nuns, barefoot and all in white, use an entrance on the right of the building. The church is a garish mix of kitsch catholic paraphernalia: bright representations of Mary in vivid, clashing colours. We stay for part of the mass. Women on one side, men on the other, the call and response rebounds in Tigrinya between the two, overlapping like a relay. It's quite hynoptic at first, then monotonous so we move on.
A panino in Sahel Park. This is a really pleasant little park: trees and small avenues fan out from a central fountain that is -- of course -- dry. In a circle around the fountain are small bowers of bamboo with seating under them. Birds and butterflies flit about and caterpillars drop from the trees, nearly landing in our food and drinks. The features are decorated in bright blue, red and white. Brick- and stone-work is red, outlined in white like some tacky English suburban nightmare. The same tape of Tigrinya music is playing here that they play on the Keren - Asmara bus, and everywhere else for that matter. The entrance gate is decorated with painted flowers and an exhortation to "Come in and happy here". So we happy in Sahel park for a little while and a welcome oasis of nature and kitsch it is too.
Then we're off to climb Forto Tigu, the hill built originally by the Turks when they founded Keren, to defend and oversee the town. Now it is home to the EriTV transmitter. It's not too high, and the climb is a fairly easy, albeit stoney, path. As we go, we pass through clouds of small white butterflies that swarm around us. Magical. When we get to the top, the warden comes out of his house to greet us. He's very friendly and invites us in for, ahem, chai. So off we go, into his house. His friend is there, and his three children, perhaps about 5 - 8 years old. We sit and talk for a while, discussing the soap opera showing on the television. It's a drama set in the days of the war of independence. Two fighters are in love, there's another fighter who's jealous etc etc. It's just like any soap anywhere in the world but set in caves and with uzis as props.
The kids come out with us to admire the view. From here you can see almost the whole of Keren and its suburbs. It's a gorgeous view and really shows off the surrounding hills and villages. My school lies at the foot of the hill, to the East. The kids are really cute and good fun. There's a little boy, who latches onto me and so we get to counting in English. The two little girls prefer Jo. When she gives one her binoculars, she poses with them the wrong way around, red lenses glowing. We say our goodbyes to the adults and start the walk down, kids in tow, chatting away. When we get near the bottom, the kids are still with us and now we're getting a little concerned. Shouldn't they be going back up to their father? We exchange a few confused questions but are still none the wiser. No amount of prompting will get the kids to go back, so they follow us into town. Thinking they are going to follow us wherever we go, and not wanting to drag them off too far from the fort, we duck into Aragay's, where we know they won't follow. It seems foolish, but we wait in the cafe for a couple of minutes until the children wander off. Later on we pass the children with their mother, so we breathe a sigh of relief: they weren't just randomly following us after all.
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