Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Blood and Balls
Lidet is the Eritrean equivalent of Christmas. Most of the Christians in the country ignore 25th December but at Lidet the whole country is on the move as people visit their families for a full day of feasting. The date of Lidet is controversial this year. The Orthodox church says it falls on Wednesday 7th January while the Catholic church claims it is on the next day. The disagreement is something to do with 2004 being a leap year, so I'm told. It's a stroke of luck, because it means we have a two day holiday. Isak was brought up in the Coptic tradition so he will be celebrating on the 7th. I'm invited.
At any feast day, there should be meat. So in every compound there is a goat, sheep or -- for the rich -- cow tethered, awaiting its fate. Isak has bought a goat for 350 nfa and it's tethered calmly in his compound, unaware of its fate.
Prior to coming to Eritrea I had not eaten more than a couple of plates of meat in about 5 years. The meat here is, as far as I can tell, organic (livestock graze wherever they wander) and definitely free-range (they wander a lot: in and out of compounds, over roundabouts, through the school yard ... ), so I made the decision fairly early on to go back to eating meat to get a regular, easy source of protein. That decision has led to this moment ...
The clinical processing of meat in Britain means that very few meat eaters have ever seen an animal being slaughtered. In Eritrea, everybody has. I believe that I shouldn't eat meat unless I am prepared to be honest about the whole process. So I ask Isak if I can watch him kill the goat. If I can't watch then I will give up meat again.
Tuesday 6th and I'm round at Isak and Bared's for coffee. When I arrive, Isak is wearing a mischievous grin. "We're slaughtering the goat tonight". I rush back to fetch my camera.
Isak lays a piece of cloth on the sand of the yard. With the help of a couple of his neighbour's teeenage boys he pins the goat on its side on the cloth. One of the boys fetches a bucket. The goat is completely silent. It barely resists, just tensing against the pulling and shoving it receives. The neighbour's goat stands stiffly behind their balcony wall, peering nervously around it at the scene.
When the bucket is in place, Isak picks up a big kitchen knife and pulls back the goat's muzzle to expose its long neck. The goat snorts and its eyes start to roll but still it doesn't complain.
With a sawing motion, Isak starts to cut the goat's throat, just under the jaw bone. With the first cut, deep into the windpipe, the goat finally lets out a cry. But it isn't a goat-like cry. My heart leaps into my throat when the goat lets out a shout that sounds like a deep, gruff, very human "NO!".
The bucket catches the blood as Isak cuts into the spinal cord and the goat's life ebbs away. Its kicks get weaker but its eyes are still bright. I imagine I can see a kind of sad acceptance in them. Before the knife is completely through the goat's throat, Isak starts to cut into the skin around one of its ankles but I ask him to wait -- the goat is obviously still alive and aware of what is happening. He smiles and waits patiently until its eyes finally cloud over. I'm surprised at how long it takes to die.
I feel a strange mix of emotions. None of the revulsion I had been expecting. Instead, I am fascinated by the process of the slaughter and the reaction of the goat. I want to catch each detail of the moment and I take quite a few photographs. When the goat is dying, regret and elation chase each other across my mind. It's thrilling: an electric sense of power and vitality. The goat is dying and I am very much alive. It is easy to understand the belief that the killer takes on the power of the victim. While the goat lies dying, I feel invigorated. But I also feel sadness and compassion for the goat. It is an animal as I am; more like me than the insects I have avoided killing and the scorpion I couldn't avoid killing. I don't know if I believe in the idea of a soul but, as it's life ends, it appears very much as if the goat has a soul that is preparing to depart. I seem to see expressions running across its face; first fear, then comprehension, a flicker of fight then sad resignation, finally the light behind its eyes dims. But all of this might just be my subjectivisation in observing a complex system shutting down. Whichever it is, it is the same process that I myself will go through one day.
Isak and the boys helping him are excited and animated. Babies and toddlers belonging to the neighbours walk or crawl around the compound, stopping to watch occasionally out of mild curiosity. Barhed teases that I'm taking so many photos of the butchering but I haven't taken any of her as she prepares injera. I feel slightly ridiculous heaping so much meaning onto the event when small children barely give it a passing glance. Perhaps it is a privilege to reflect in this way, perhaps it's a superfluous luxury.
Now they are skinning the goat. It is hanging by its back legs from the centre of a tall stepladder, and Isak and the boys are cutting around the ankles then down the back legs and along the belly. As they cut, they pull hard on the skin. It's a very physical, exhausting process. The skin doesn't come away easily. They use their weight to tug at it, sometimes lifting a foot and bracing it against the body to give some leverage. When they do this, it looks almost as if they are trying to step inside the skin, adding to my swirling impressions of power and magic as goat hair drifts in the air like fallout. In my naivety, and slightly hallucinatory state of mind, I am surprised that the goat's body remains intact as the skin is removed. I think I expected the innards to come flowing out, but the translucent membrane around the body holds everything in.
Now it is no longer a goat. It is meat: muscles, bones and tendons and a bag of tubes and sponges. The head -- still attached and intact -- is no longer the focal point, no longer the centre of a soul or system: it is an ornament.
Another bucket is placed under the corpse as Isak cuts into the membrane. Now the internal organs come flowing out. One of the boys takes the bucket away and sets to work cleaning the intestines and stomach. He picks up one end of the intestine and squeezes slowly along it, compacting the contents until they eventually emerge in a slop at the other end, then pouring water down the tube and repeating the process. What comes out is unmistakeable: half-processed food, and shit.
Meanwhile, Isak is at work on the meat and bones. He pulls the carcass apart piece by piece. It's strange that after all I've seen I still squirm at the "crack" made by the ribs as he wrenches them one by one from the spine. Sometimes Isak cannot quite get a grip on the slippery ribs so he leans forward and clenches his teeth around the bone to tear it away. An incredibly bestial act.
Finally, all that remains of the goat is the muscle, bones and head, and two huge testicles hanging from their cords halfway down the body. "They're a lot more impressive than mine!", I say. Isak laughs.
The slaughter over, we move inside for jebena. While we're drinking and talking, Isak takes the intestines and starts to plait them. He ties a knot, makes a loop, then pulls the rest of the tube through and repeats the process. Throughout the coffee he continues to weave until he has several metres of plaited gut in his bowl.
The coffee over, Barhed chops up some onions, tomatoes and garlic into a fine puree then pours in the whole bowl of blood from the goat. Cooked, the blood turns grey and loses most of its liquid so that when it is tipped out onto injera it is the consistency of scrambled egg. It is salty and earthy and rich.
Now comes the delicacy. Barhed places the charcoal stove in the middle and Isak leaves the room. He comes back and places something on the charcoal. Two things: the testicles. They are pure white rugby balls, about three or four inches long. They spit and crackle as they cook in the charcoal. When I try one, the burnt charcoal crisp and tang gives way to a texture like firm hard-boiled egg-white and a distinctly eggy taste. There is an edge of musk to the taste as well.
When I'm back in my bed at the end of the evening, I dream of blood and fur and bone. And that defiant shout of "NO!".
Next day is Lidet. I arrive in time for breakfast: Dlot -- fried intestines -- with injera. They are chewy and a bit tasteless but I smile my way through them. Then some coffee, followed by sewa made from dates. The date sewa is delicious: a sweet, clear yellow beer that is just mildly alcoholic. We also have some traditional sewa, made by a neighbour. Sitting and talking with Isak, Barhed and the various people who turn up throughout the day, and playing with baby Esrom. The remains of the goat are hanging by the window, drying.
As the afternoon turns we eat more dlot, then zigni -- boiled meat in a spicy sauce. The zigni is delicious, with a strong chilli heat. More date sewa, more traditional sewa, and even a touch of araki. Barhed's father turns up for lunch. He doesn't eat much food because he has just come from another meal, but his consumption of date sewa is prodigious. He doesn't even try to speak Tigrinya with me, instead he uses exclusively mime. This makes it very difficult for me to understand what he is saying, and Isak is none the wiser as to what his eccentric gestures might mean. I'm trying hard not to laugh as he mugs wildly. We are talking about his stick -- the stick that most Tigrinya and Tigre men carry -- and I think he promises to make me one. I think.
As the evening approaches, Isak suggests he and I go for a walk. I know what that means, and sure enough we don't get any further than the local bar. It's run by Elen, who has returned from living in Germany. I'm quite pleased that I can hold a fair conversation in German with her daughter when we arrive. After six beers each I can no longer understand a word she says. But Isak and I have had an excellent evening and we make our way back to more zigni then, finally, bed.
The next day I feel very ill. I have diarrhea and stomach cramps, and perhaps a mild hangover. I spend most of the day curled up on my bed, missing an appointment for more Lidet celebrations at a teacher's house, and an evening of coffee and food at Isak's. I am still sick right up until Friday afternoon, when it clears up, fortunately because Jo is coming over the next day. The goat's revenge.
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At any feast day, there should be meat. So in every compound there is a goat, sheep or -- for the rich -- cow tethered, awaiting its fate. Isak has bought a goat for 350 nfa and it's tethered calmly in his compound, unaware of its fate.
Prior to coming to Eritrea I had not eaten more than a couple of plates of meat in about 5 years. The meat here is, as far as I can tell, organic (livestock graze wherever they wander) and definitely free-range (they wander a lot: in and out of compounds, over roundabouts, through the school yard ... ), so I made the decision fairly early on to go back to eating meat to get a regular, easy source of protein. That decision has led to this moment ...
The clinical processing of meat in Britain means that very few meat eaters have ever seen an animal being slaughtered. In Eritrea, everybody has. I believe that I shouldn't eat meat unless I am prepared to be honest about the whole process. So I ask Isak if I can watch him kill the goat. If I can't watch then I will give up meat again.
Tuesday 6th and I'm round at Isak and Bared's for coffee. When I arrive, Isak is wearing a mischievous grin. "We're slaughtering the goat tonight". I rush back to fetch my camera.
Isak lays a piece of cloth on the sand of the yard. With the help of a couple of his neighbour's teeenage boys he pins the goat on its side on the cloth. One of the boys fetches a bucket. The goat is completely silent. It barely resists, just tensing against the pulling and shoving it receives. The neighbour's goat stands stiffly behind their balcony wall, peering nervously around it at the scene.
When the bucket is in place, Isak picks up a big kitchen knife and pulls back the goat's muzzle to expose its long neck. The goat snorts and its eyes start to roll but still it doesn't complain.
With a sawing motion, Isak starts to cut the goat's throat, just under the jaw bone. With the first cut, deep into the windpipe, the goat finally lets out a cry. But it isn't a goat-like cry. My heart leaps into my throat when the goat lets out a shout that sounds like a deep, gruff, very human "NO!".
The bucket catches the blood as Isak cuts into the spinal cord and the goat's life ebbs away. Its kicks get weaker but its eyes are still bright. I imagine I can see a kind of sad acceptance in them. Before the knife is completely through the goat's throat, Isak starts to cut into the skin around one of its ankles but I ask him to wait -- the goat is obviously still alive and aware of what is happening. He smiles and waits patiently until its eyes finally cloud over. I'm surprised at how long it takes to die.
I feel a strange mix of emotions. None of the revulsion I had been expecting. Instead, I am fascinated by the process of the slaughter and the reaction of the goat. I want to catch each detail of the moment and I take quite a few photographs. When the goat is dying, regret and elation chase each other across my mind. It's thrilling: an electric sense of power and vitality. The goat is dying and I am very much alive. It is easy to understand the belief that the killer takes on the power of the victim. While the goat lies dying, I feel invigorated. But I also feel sadness and compassion for the goat. It is an animal as I am; more like me than the insects I have avoided killing and the scorpion I couldn't avoid killing. I don't know if I believe in the idea of a soul but, as it's life ends, it appears very much as if the goat has a soul that is preparing to depart. I seem to see expressions running across its face; first fear, then comprehension, a flicker of fight then sad resignation, finally the light behind its eyes dims. But all of this might just be my subjectivisation in observing a complex system shutting down. Whichever it is, it is the same process that I myself will go through one day.
Isak and the boys helping him are excited and animated. Babies and toddlers belonging to the neighbours walk or crawl around the compound, stopping to watch occasionally out of mild curiosity. Barhed teases that I'm taking so many photos of the butchering but I haven't taken any of her as she prepares injera. I feel slightly ridiculous heaping so much meaning onto the event when small children barely give it a passing glance. Perhaps it is a privilege to reflect in this way, perhaps it's a superfluous luxury.
Now they are skinning the goat. It is hanging by its back legs from the centre of a tall stepladder, and Isak and the boys are cutting around the ankles then down the back legs and along the belly. As they cut, they pull hard on the skin. It's a very physical, exhausting process. The skin doesn't come away easily. They use their weight to tug at it, sometimes lifting a foot and bracing it against the body to give some leverage. When they do this, it looks almost as if they are trying to step inside the skin, adding to my swirling impressions of power and magic as goat hair drifts in the air like fallout. In my naivety, and slightly hallucinatory state of mind, I am surprised that the goat's body remains intact as the skin is removed. I think I expected the innards to come flowing out, but the translucent membrane around the body holds everything in.
Now it is no longer a goat. It is meat: muscles, bones and tendons and a bag of tubes and sponges. The head -- still attached and intact -- is no longer the focal point, no longer the centre of a soul or system: it is an ornament.
Another bucket is placed under the corpse as Isak cuts into the membrane. Now the internal organs come flowing out. One of the boys takes the bucket away and sets to work cleaning the intestines and stomach. He picks up one end of the intestine and squeezes slowly along it, compacting the contents until they eventually emerge in a slop at the other end, then pouring water down the tube and repeating the process. What comes out is unmistakeable: half-processed food, and shit.
Meanwhile, Isak is at work on the meat and bones. He pulls the carcass apart piece by piece. It's strange that after all I've seen I still squirm at the "crack" made by the ribs as he wrenches them one by one from the spine. Sometimes Isak cannot quite get a grip on the slippery ribs so he leans forward and clenches his teeth around the bone to tear it away. An incredibly bestial act.
Finally, all that remains of the goat is the muscle, bones and head, and two huge testicles hanging from their cords halfway down the body. "They're a lot more impressive than mine!", I say. Isak laughs.
The slaughter over, we move inside for jebena. While we're drinking and talking, Isak takes the intestines and starts to plait them. He ties a knot, makes a loop, then pulls the rest of the tube through and repeats the process. Throughout the coffee he continues to weave until he has several metres of plaited gut in his bowl.
The coffee over, Barhed chops up some onions, tomatoes and garlic into a fine puree then pours in the whole bowl of blood from the goat. Cooked, the blood turns grey and loses most of its liquid so that when it is tipped out onto injera it is the consistency of scrambled egg. It is salty and earthy and rich.
Now comes the delicacy. Barhed places the charcoal stove in the middle and Isak leaves the room. He comes back and places something on the charcoal. Two things: the testicles. They are pure white rugby balls, about three or four inches long. They spit and crackle as they cook in the charcoal. When I try one, the burnt charcoal crisp and tang gives way to a texture like firm hard-boiled egg-white and a distinctly eggy taste. There is an edge of musk to the taste as well.
When I'm back in my bed at the end of the evening, I dream of blood and fur and bone. And that defiant shout of "NO!".
Next day is Lidet. I arrive in time for breakfast: Dlot -- fried intestines -- with injera. They are chewy and a bit tasteless but I smile my way through them. Then some coffee, followed by sewa made from dates. The date sewa is delicious: a sweet, clear yellow beer that is just mildly alcoholic. We also have some traditional sewa, made by a neighbour. Sitting and talking with Isak, Barhed and the various people who turn up throughout the day, and playing with baby Esrom. The remains of the goat are hanging by the window, drying.
As the afternoon turns we eat more dlot, then zigni -- boiled meat in a spicy sauce. The zigni is delicious, with a strong chilli heat. More date sewa, more traditional sewa, and even a touch of araki. Barhed's father turns up for lunch. He doesn't eat much food because he has just come from another meal, but his consumption of date sewa is prodigious. He doesn't even try to speak Tigrinya with me, instead he uses exclusively mime. This makes it very difficult for me to understand what he is saying, and Isak is none the wiser as to what his eccentric gestures might mean. I'm trying hard not to laugh as he mugs wildly. We are talking about his stick -- the stick that most Tigrinya and Tigre men carry -- and I think he promises to make me one. I think.
As the evening approaches, Isak suggests he and I go for a walk. I know what that means, and sure enough we don't get any further than the local bar. It's run by Elen, who has returned from living in Germany. I'm quite pleased that I can hold a fair conversation in German with her daughter when we arrive. After six beers each I can no longer understand a word she says. But Isak and I have had an excellent evening and we make our way back to more zigni then, finally, bed.
The next day I feel very ill. I have diarrhea and stomach cramps, and perhaps a mild hangover. I spend most of the day curled up on my bed, missing an appointment for more Lidet celebrations at a teacher's house, and an evening of coffee and food at Isak's. I am still sick right up until Friday afternoon, when it clears up, fortunately because Jo is coming over the next day. The goat's revenge.
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
Frights, Lights and Festivities
More wildlife
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Early morning. My usual time to get up: about 6am. So I'm stumbling around, bleary-eyed and blurry-headed. I reach for my towel, half-blind in the semi-darkness, and trek across the sand to the shower / toilet. The days are getting cooler and the morning shower is a shock to the system so I'm braced for the piercing cold of the water as I step under it. I've discovered a trick: The shock of stepping into a cold shower is made worse by the sharp intake of breath that's an instinctive reaction, so my technique is to breathe out steadily as I make the plunge. It usually works: the water is still a shock but I don't have the gasping sensation that increases its impact.
But this morning my breath is taken from me by a small, brown object by my feet. Sharing the shower with me is a scorpion.
This is the first time I've seen a scorpion anywhere in Keren. I saw my very first live scorpion when we visited She'eb Seleba, but it was very small and, more pertinently, living in someone else's village. I'd sort of convinced myself that Keren must be scorpion-free. Not so. The evidence is about six inches from my left foot, four inches long, and spreading its pincers wide in a stance that would be universally recognised as aggressive.
Strangely, it's not fear that I feel. Anyone who knows me well knows of my phobia of wasps. Anyone who knows me well would assume I would be equally concerned about scorpions, especially after hearing the stories I've heard of excruciating pain that lasts for two whole days. But I'm not scared, I'm curious. It's quite a facinating little animal, ribbed tan armour and clacking articulation. It seems more aware, more connected to my own world than an insect would be. It seems vulnerable and affectingly aggressive, as if it understands that it hasn't much chance against me but it's going to fight to the last. The tail is raised and the pincers are spread wide and tipped towards me. I cannot see it's features but I can imagine they might be contorted into a snarl or hissing like a cornered cat. In fact it makes no noise, at least not one that I can hear, enhancing the sense of unequal scale and of unfairness. It's unfair because the weapon that the scorpion is relying upon to deter me is the very thing that obliges me to act.
So I try to give it a chance by filling a bucket and attempting to flush it down the shower drain. But with suicidal tenacity the little bugger manages to wedge itself against the rim of the drain while the water washes over it. I'm not sure what chance I would have of catching the creature and disposing of it humanely -- there are small children in the compound and I don't want to risk them getting stung -- so I smash its brains in with the edge of a bucket. One last murmur of regret as its soul is carried down a tributary of the Styx then I continue my shower in peace.
Christmas Day
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Christmas is not widely celebrated in Eritrea. The majority of the population is either Coptic or Muslim so, although it is a holiday, Christmas passes under most people's radar.
Jo and I are spending the day in her house. I leave nice and early in the morning but my hopes of arriving on time are dashed when the bus has to stop for an hour on the mountain road up from Keren. A lorry carrying flour has overturned on the road ahead and we have to wait for a crane to haul it back onto the road. This is Africa, I'm in the midst of a barren, rocky hillscape and the sun is blazing but the chill in the morning air and my own sense of anticipation still lend a Christmassy atmosphere to the day.
Jo has made a Christmas tree from catalogue coupons stuck to her wall, complete with star, and lain presents beneath it. As soon as I arrive, she offers to make a "bacon" and egg sandwich. The "bacon" is really fried Mortadella, the attractively-named "meat product" that is the only processed meat I have yet seen in Eritrea, aside from the dried beef that Isak prepared. It's delicious in a really bad "I can't believe it's not real food" kind of way.
Later, Rubka and her "friend" Mohammed are invited in to collect the little gifts Jo has bought for them, and for a coffee ceremony. Jo makes the coffee under Rubka's watchful eye. She's not allowed to make the slightest deviation from her rigorous traning. When Jo goes to pour from the jebena, Rubka holds her back. A second later, she decides its ready and gives her consent. There is a distinct master - apprentice relationship between the pair of them.
When the coffee is over and the guests have left we have our Christmas Day: swapping presents (I got a couple of posters, some sparklers, a book and a pepper mill), drinking champagne (well, sparkling wine) and red wine, and eating a delicious chicken dinner (fried, because there is no oven) with gravy followed by Christmas pudding in flaming brandy. The day is topped off by a Christmas movie on Jo's laptop. Perfect. Well, almost perfect: I get myself some water and don't realise I've left the filter tap open so we leap into mopping action when a puddle appears around the connecting door. Later, I even manage to kick a glass of water so high that it soaks the bed pillow. Must be the champagne.
I made a cracker. It didn't have a banger in. Instead, I wired it up with a speaker from a record-it-yourself message card that we were all sent for International Teachers' Day. I recorded myself shouting "bang!", then fixed it inside the toilet roll cracker with a trigger linked to one of the pulls. Well worth it for Jo's reaction.
Shimmer in the Sea
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Boxing Day -- which only exists in our ex-pat minds here -- we took the bus down to Massawa.
This is the perfect time of year to visit the coast. The heat is pleasant rather than scorching, and the sea feels cool. Dinner at the Selam fish restaurant in town, where we ate in September, then back to stay at Mel's for me, Jo, Pete and Dr. Dave.
Next day we walk around town. Weirdly, everything is shut. There is some sort of meeting (probably PFDJ -- the ruling party) and almost everyone has gone. So there are no shops open, and no cafes to slake our increasing thirst. We walk around the old town and explore the bombed-out shell of Haile Selassie's palace. The "palace" is surprisingly small and modest. Much of the furniture is still there, although many of the walls are missing. In one of the rooms hangs a ceiling fan that turns eerily in the gentle breeze. There are broken tiles scattered about, and pieces of sculpture that have sunk into the earth. A lion's head lies on its side at the base of one wall, remnant of the imperial dream of the Lion of Judea. The building is crowned by a pompous dome, the top cracked off like a soft-boiled egg.
In the afternoon we meet the others -- there are about thirty of us in all -- and book into the Hamassien Hotel, overlooking the beach. An afternoon of eating and swimming.
In the evening, an excellent buffet is laid out for us: bits of fish, bits of meat, injera, rice, cheese on sticks and sheep's intestines are amongst the impressive selection. Later, we play party games and, later still, drinking games. Then Jo and I get into our costumes for a night swim.
Senafe Jo is already in the water. So is the fabled phosphorescence. As our limbs move through the water, they are followed by streams of light: a plasma burst of liquid shimmer with each stroke. When we lift our arms out of the water they are dotted with glittering specks that fade after a couple of seconds. It's very beautiful: as if we were pulling the reflection of the stars along with us, then dragging them out of the water to meet their twins in the night air.
The phosphorescence is caused by tiny plankton, I think. Senafe Jo suggests that the light is the final release of energy of a dying individual.
Everyone else leaves in the morning but Jo and I stay another night to relax a little more. Unfortunately, there is a celebration of some kind at the bar and a very loud band is playing Tigrinya music, so we escape to the room fairly early on. It was lovely to have most of the day to ourselves though.
New Year
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On New Year's Eve Jo, Helen and I have a meal at the Pizza and Pasta Place -- one of the best pizzerias in Asmara. The pizza is very good, and there's wine and profiteroles to help it down. Then we're off to Bar Royal on Liberation Avenue. We sit upstairs, looking down on the bustling bar. We are the only ex-pats in there, which is excellent.
The bar is busy but fairly subdued until someone realises it's midnight. Suddenly the place erupts with popping champagne corks and blaring Tigrinya music. Downstairs, people are spraying Asmara champagne all around. I don't blame them: I wouldn't want to drink the stuff, it smells of vinegar. The young guys around the neighbouring bench reach over to wish us a Happy New Year and offer us some of their pizza. Very friendly, very lively. We leave while drinks are still being served, but get shuffled out behind the bar and through a side exit because the shutters have closed over the main door.
Way Out West
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We take a trip out to Tesseney (to see Dave) and Barentu (to see Will and Bernadette) at the weekend. First stop Tesseney: 8 hours on the bus with a couple of breaks for chai. Through a gap in the hills surrounding Keren first, then down the steep escarpment to the plains of the Gash-Barka region. The temperature increases as the altitude drops, and sparse mountainscape gives way to a flat terrain of tall cactus forests.
Tesseney is a lovely town. Many of the buildings are similar to Keren but the town has a more spacious feel to it. Everyone we meet is really friendly: shopkeepers, cafe workers, and friends of Dave. It seems a very relaxed, easy-going town. It has a strong Sudanese influence, being the last major town before the border, so the food is great and there is a culture of al fresco eating that hasn't quite taken hold in Keren and is rare in Asmara.
In the evening we eat with hundreds of others outside one of a line of stalls serving "Shiar" (a guess at the phonetic spelling) -- flame-grilled cubes of meat (possibly lamb) with a sauce that is reminiscent of barbecue sauce in Britain. Smoky, tangy and delicious.
Dave is well established in Tesseney. He has a busy, complex social life with the teachers and other local friends that seems to more than compensate for his remoteness from Asmara.
After a night in a comfortable pension ("New Africa"), we're back on the bus to Barentu. Most of the road out of Tesseney is interrupted by piles of sand, so the bus is continually turning off down dirt tracks before rejoining the road later. It's a very uncomfortable ride. When the road becomes a bit more consistent, the cactus forests thicken and the trip reminds me of a safari. Feral camels wander through the forests, munching on the tender tops of cactus much like giraffes feast on leaf in other parts of Africa. It's a jolt to realise these camels are wild: I had subconsciously categorised camels as entirely domesticated animals, much like my impression of sheep.
Finally, we're in Barentu. It doesn't appear to be very interesting: just a bus station, UN buildings, and a main road that is free of traffic because there are big piles of sand blocking it in preparation for asphalting. A kid from one of the hotels shows us the way to Will and Bernadette's.
It's good to see them and they too are really settled in their two big rooms. They've brightened up their balcony and yard with home-made decorations and fairy lights and live an idyllic life of cake-baking and culinary experimentation it seems. Except not today. There has been no kerosene in the town for a couple of weeks and so they have been mostly eating out and that's what we'll do tonight: Shiar at the Adal Hotel. But as we're walking along the main street there is a blue flash and a pop from one of the electricity junction boxes. Further on, we realise that this part of town is blacked-out. When we get to the hotel, there is a bunch of people sitting around in darkness. So we walk back to a hotel we passed on the way and eat there instead, by candlelight.
A sit and a chat on the balcony, pestered by mosquitos and momentarily interrupted by an intruding donkey, then off to bed. Our bedroom, usually occupied by a neighbour who is away, has its own colony of crickets that covers the bottom corner of one wall. I fish out one of the crickets that has found its way into the mosquito net then we fall into a deep, exhausted sleep. By morning, the crickets have all disappeared from the room.
The bus back from Barentu to Keren is the most comfortable I've been on so far. As it winds its way out of Barentu we realise that there is a lot more to the town than we'd assumed. Covered markets and bustling squares remind me of Keren.
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Early morning. My usual time to get up: about 6am. So I'm stumbling around, bleary-eyed and blurry-headed. I reach for my towel, half-blind in the semi-darkness, and trek across the sand to the shower / toilet. The days are getting cooler and the morning shower is a shock to the system so I'm braced for the piercing cold of the water as I step under it. I've discovered a trick: The shock of stepping into a cold shower is made worse by the sharp intake of breath that's an instinctive reaction, so my technique is to breathe out steadily as I make the plunge. It usually works: the water is still a shock but I don't have the gasping sensation that increases its impact.
But this morning my breath is taken from me by a small, brown object by my feet. Sharing the shower with me is a scorpion.
This is the first time I've seen a scorpion anywhere in Keren. I saw my very first live scorpion when we visited She'eb Seleba, but it was very small and, more pertinently, living in someone else's village. I'd sort of convinced myself that Keren must be scorpion-free. Not so. The evidence is about six inches from my left foot, four inches long, and spreading its pincers wide in a stance that would be universally recognised as aggressive.
Strangely, it's not fear that I feel. Anyone who knows me well knows of my phobia of wasps. Anyone who knows me well would assume I would be equally concerned about scorpions, especially after hearing the stories I've heard of excruciating pain that lasts for two whole days. But I'm not scared, I'm curious. It's quite a facinating little animal, ribbed tan armour and clacking articulation. It seems more aware, more connected to my own world than an insect would be. It seems vulnerable and affectingly aggressive, as if it understands that it hasn't much chance against me but it's going to fight to the last. The tail is raised and the pincers are spread wide and tipped towards me. I cannot see it's features but I can imagine they might be contorted into a snarl or hissing like a cornered cat. In fact it makes no noise, at least not one that I can hear, enhancing the sense of unequal scale and of unfairness. It's unfair because the weapon that the scorpion is relying upon to deter me is the very thing that obliges me to act.
So I try to give it a chance by filling a bucket and attempting to flush it down the shower drain. But with suicidal tenacity the little bugger manages to wedge itself against the rim of the drain while the water washes over it. I'm not sure what chance I would have of catching the creature and disposing of it humanely -- there are small children in the compound and I don't want to risk them getting stung -- so I smash its brains in with the edge of a bucket. One last murmur of regret as its soul is carried down a tributary of the Styx then I continue my shower in peace.
Christmas Day
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Christmas is not widely celebrated in Eritrea. The majority of the population is either Coptic or Muslim so, although it is a holiday, Christmas passes under most people's radar.
Jo and I are spending the day in her house. I leave nice and early in the morning but my hopes of arriving on time are dashed when the bus has to stop for an hour on the mountain road up from Keren. A lorry carrying flour has overturned on the road ahead and we have to wait for a crane to haul it back onto the road. This is Africa, I'm in the midst of a barren, rocky hillscape and the sun is blazing but the chill in the morning air and my own sense of anticipation still lend a Christmassy atmosphere to the day.
Jo has made a Christmas tree from catalogue coupons stuck to her wall, complete with star, and lain presents beneath it. As soon as I arrive, she offers to make a "bacon" and egg sandwich. The "bacon" is really fried Mortadella, the attractively-named "meat product" that is the only processed meat I have yet seen in Eritrea, aside from the dried beef that Isak prepared. It's delicious in a really bad "I can't believe it's not real food" kind of way.
Later, Rubka and her "friend" Mohammed are invited in to collect the little gifts Jo has bought for them, and for a coffee ceremony. Jo makes the coffee under Rubka's watchful eye. She's not allowed to make the slightest deviation from her rigorous traning. When Jo goes to pour from the jebena, Rubka holds her back. A second later, she decides its ready and gives her consent. There is a distinct master - apprentice relationship between the pair of them.
When the coffee is over and the guests have left we have our Christmas Day: swapping presents (I got a couple of posters, some sparklers, a book and a pepper mill), drinking champagne (well, sparkling wine) and red wine, and eating a delicious chicken dinner (fried, because there is no oven) with gravy followed by Christmas pudding in flaming brandy. The day is topped off by a Christmas movie on Jo's laptop. Perfect. Well, almost perfect: I get myself some water and don't realise I've left the filter tap open so we leap into mopping action when a puddle appears around the connecting door. Later, I even manage to kick a glass of water so high that it soaks the bed pillow. Must be the champagne.
I made a cracker. It didn't have a banger in. Instead, I wired it up with a speaker from a record-it-yourself message card that we were all sent for International Teachers' Day. I recorded myself shouting "bang!", then fixed it inside the toilet roll cracker with a trigger linked to one of the pulls. Well worth it for Jo's reaction.
Shimmer in the Sea
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Boxing Day -- which only exists in our ex-pat minds here -- we took the bus down to Massawa.
This is the perfect time of year to visit the coast. The heat is pleasant rather than scorching, and the sea feels cool. Dinner at the Selam fish restaurant in town, where we ate in September, then back to stay at Mel's for me, Jo, Pete and Dr. Dave.
Next day we walk around town. Weirdly, everything is shut. There is some sort of meeting (probably PFDJ -- the ruling party) and almost everyone has gone. So there are no shops open, and no cafes to slake our increasing thirst. We walk around the old town and explore the bombed-out shell of Haile Selassie's palace. The "palace" is surprisingly small and modest. Much of the furniture is still there, although many of the walls are missing. In one of the rooms hangs a ceiling fan that turns eerily in the gentle breeze. There are broken tiles scattered about, and pieces of sculpture that have sunk into the earth. A lion's head lies on its side at the base of one wall, remnant of the imperial dream of the Lion of Judea. The building is crowned by a pompous dome, the top cracked off like a soft-boiled egg.
In the afternoon we meet the others -- there are about thirty of us in all -- and book into the Hamassien Hotel, overlooking the beach. An afternoon of eating and swimming.
In the evening, an excellent buffet is laid out for us: bits of fish, bits of meat, injera, rice, cheese on sticks and sheep's intestines are amongst the impressive selection. Later, we play party games and, later still, drinking games. Then Jo and I get into our costumes for a night swim.
Senafe Jo is already in the water. So is the fabled phosphorescence. As our limbs move through the water, they are followed by streams of light: a plasma burst of liquid shimmer with each stroke. When we lift our arms out of the water they are dotted with glittering specks that fade after a couple of seconds. It's very beautiful: as if we were pulling the reflection of the stars along with us, then dragging them out of the water to meet their twins in the night air.
The phosphorescence is caused by tiny plankton, I think. Senafe Jo suggests that the light is the final release of energy of a dying individual.
Everyone else leaves in the morning but Jo and I stay another night to relax a little more. Unfortunately, there is a celebration of some kind at the bar and a very loud band is playing Tigrinya music, so we escape to the room fairly early on. It was lovely to have most of the day to ourselves though.
New Year
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On New Year's Eve Jo, Helen and I have a meal at the Pizza and Pasta Place -- one of the best pizzerias in Asmara. The pizza is very good, and there's wine and profiteroles to help it down. Then we're off to Bar Royal on Liberation Avenue. We sit upstairs, looking down on the bustling bar. We are the only ex-pats in there, which is excellent.
The bar is busy but fairly subdued until someone realises it's midnight. Suddenly the place erupts with popping champagne corks and blaring Tigrinya music. Downstairs, people are spraying Asmara champagne all around. I don't blame them: I wouldn't want to drink the stuff, it smells of vinegar. The young guys around the neighbouring bench reach over to wish us a Happy New Year and offer us some of their pizza. Very friendly, very lively. We leave while drinks are still being served, but get shuffled out behind the bar and through a side exit because the shutters have closed over the main door.
Way Out West
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We take a trip out to Tesseney (to see Dave) and Barentu (to see Will and Bernadette) at the weekend. First stop Tesseney: 8 hours on the bus with a couple of breaks for chai. Through a gap in the hills surrounding Keren first, then down the steep escarpment to the plains of the Gash-Barka region. The temperature increases as the altitude drops, and sparse mountainscape gives way to a flat terrain of tall cactus forests.
Tesseney is a lovely town. Many of the buildings are similar to Keren but the town has a more spacious feel to it. Everyone we meet is really friendly: shopkeepers, cafe workers, and friends of Dave. It seems a very relaxed, easy-going town. It has a strong Sudanese influence, being the last major town before the border, so the food is great and there is a culture of al fresco eating that hasn't quite taken hold in Keren and is rare in Asmara.
In the evening we eat with hundreds of others outside one of a line of stalls serving "Shiar" (a guess at the phonetic spelling) -- flame-grilled cubes of meat (possibly lamb) with a sauce that is reminiscent of barbecue sauce in Britain. Smoky, tangy and delicious.
Dave is well established in Tesseney. He has a busy, complex social life with the teachers and other local friends that seems to more than compensate for his remoteness from Asmara.
After a night in a comfortable pension ("New Africa"), we're back on the bus to Barentu. Most of the road out of Tesseney is interrupted by piles of sand, so the bus is continually turning off down dirt tracks before rejoining the road later. It's a very uncomfortable ride. When the road becomes a bit more consistent, the cactus forests thicken and the trip reminds me of a safari. Feral camels wander through the forests, munching on the tender tops of cactus much like giraffes feast on leaf in other parts of Africa. It's a jolt to realise these camels are wild: I had subconsciously categorised camels as entirely domesticated animals, much like my impression of sheep.
Finally, we're in Barentu. It doesn't appear to be very interesting: just a bus station, UN buildings, and a main road that is free of traffic because there are big piles of sand blocking it in preparation for asphalting. A kid from one of the hotels shows us the way to Will and Bernadette's.
It's good to see them and they too are really settled in their two big rooms. They've brightened up their balcony and yard with home-made decorations and fairy lights and live an idyllic life of cake-baking and culinary experimentation it seems. Except not today. There has been no kerosene in the town for a couple of weeks and so they have been mostly eating out and that's what we'll do tonight: Shiar at the Adal Hotel. But as we're walking along the main street there is a blue flash and a pop from one of the electricity junction boxes. Further on, we realise that this part of town is blacked-out. When we get to the hotel, there is a bunch of people sitting around in darkness. So we walk back to a hotel we passed on the way and eat there instead, by candlelight.
A sit and a chat on the balcony, pestered by mosquitos and momentarily interrupted by an intruding donkey, then off to bed. Our bedroom, usually occupied by a neighbour who is away, has its own colony of crickets that covers the bottom corner of one wall. I fish out one of the crickets that has found its way into the mosquito net then we fall into a deep, exhausted sleep. By morning, the crickets have all disappeared from the room.
The bus back from Barentu to Keren is the most comfortable I've been on so far. As it winds its way out of Barentu we realise that there is a lot more to the town than we'd assumed. Covered markets and bustling squares remind me of Keren.
