Tuesday, January 06, 2004
Frights, Lights and Festivities
More wildlife
-------------
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
-------------
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
------------------
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
--------
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
------------
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.
-------------
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
-------------
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
------------------
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
--------
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
------------
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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