Wednesday, February 25, 2004
More for the Menagerie
"'Take me in, gentle woman', sssighed the sssnake"
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Morning. About 6.30. Wake up, get up; bleary-eyed and wobbly-legged, staggering to the corner to put on my sandals. As I reach down something odd registers in my blurred mind. The shadows of the corner seem deeper than usual. As my mind and eyes begin to focus, I realise that the shadows are also moving. Curled up in the corner of my bedroom is a two-foot long green-black snake.
Now, I know very little about snakes. Is it poisonous? I have no idea. But I don't want to kill it. So I reach for my broom and try to shoo it under the door with the brush. The snake's not cooperating: it curls around the brush and back into the corner each time I try to push it elsewhere. It doesn't make any attempt to strike however, so I assume it's fairly benign. I want to pick it up, but I'm unsure if it might try to bite me if I do.
Mama Gabriella notices me and comes over to investigate. Rough translation from the Tigrinya: "Eeeeeeeeeeeeee! A snake!". At her screams, Hafti Gabriella rushes over with her husband's big stick and "smack!": down comes the stick and out spill the snake's brains. The poor thing's head is completely split in two. I pick up the corpse when it finally stops twitching and carry it across the yard to drop it outside. Both Gabriellas back away from me as I pass by, gasping incredulously. I've met many people in this country with a morbid fear of snakes, and even the thought of touching the body is too much for the Gabriellas.
A little later, when I go round for my breakfast bread, the woman in the shop gives me something wrapped in a sweet paper. It looks like a small white piece of plant root. "Keep this in your pocket and you will never get bitten, or keep it in your house and no snake will come near", she counsels. It doesn't taste or smell of anything to me, but then I'm not a snake.
"There's a rat in mi toilet, what am I gonna do?"
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4 o'clock in the morning. The beers of the previous night have worked their way through and need to be released. On with the clothes, pick up the torch, and across the yard to the toilet. But the toilet's already occupied. A heavy scrabbling makes me look up to see a big rat hanging by its front feet from the beam in the ceiling. Its trying to get out of the light but can't get down from its perch, so it runs frantically back and forth along the beam, nearly slipping off several times, and urinating onto the floor below at least once. After watching it for a few minutes, I reach a decision: I don't want a rat to fall on me or piss on me, so I go to the corner of the yard to relieve myself instead.
When it's time to get up, I'm glad to find the rat gone but both Gabriellas seem a little moody. Maybe they disapprove of my decision.
(0) comments
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Morning. About 6.30. Wake up, get up; bleary-eyed and wobbly-legged, staggering to the corner to put on my sandals. As I reach down something odd registers in my blurred mind. The shadows of the corner seem deeper than usual. As my mind and eyes begin to focus, I realise that the shadows are also moving. Curled up in the corner of my bedroom is a two-foot long green-black snake.
Now, I know very little about snakes. Is it poisonous? I have no idea. But I don't want to kill it. So I reach for my broom and try to shoo it under the door with the brush. The snake's not cooperating: it curls around the brush and back into the corner each time I try to push it elsewhere. It doesn't make any attempt to strike however, so I assume it's fairly benign. I want to pick it up, but I'm unsure if it might try to bite me if I do.
Mama Gabriella notices me and comes over to investigate. Rough translation from the Tigrinya: "Eeeeeeeeeeeeee! A snake!". At her screams, Hafti Gabriella rushes over with her husband's big stick and "smack!": down comes the stick and out spill the snake's brains. The poor thing's head is completely split in two. I pick up the corpse when it finally stops twitching and carry it across the yard to drop it outside. Both Gabriellas back away from me as I pass by, gasping incredulously. I've met many people in this country with a morbid fear of snakes, and even the thought of touching the body is too much for the Gabriellas.
A little later, when I go round for my breakfast bread, the woman in the shop gives me something wrapped in a sweet paper. It looks like a small white piece of plant root. "Keep this in your pocket and you will never get bitten, or keep it in your house and no snake will come near", she counsels. It doesn't taste or smell of anything to me, but then I'm not a snake.
"There's a rat in mi toilet, what am I gonna do?"
-------------------------------------------------
4 o'clock in the morning. The beers of the previous night have worked their way through and need to be released. On with the clothes, pick up the torch, and across the yard to the toilet. But the toilet's already occupied. A heavy scrabbling makes me look up to see a big rat hanging by its front feet from the beam in the ceiling. Its trying to get out of the light but can't get down from its perch, so it runs frantically back and forth along the beam, nearly slipping off several times, and urinating onto the floor below at least once. After watching it for a few minutes, I reach a decision: I don't want a rat to fall on me or piss on me, so I go to the corner of the yard to relieve myself instead.
When it's time to get up, I'm glad to find the rat gone but both Gabriellas seem a little moody. Maybe they disapprove of my decision.
FGM Links
Here are some links for information on Female Genital Mutilation. I have not fully reviewed their content.
Amnesty International: www.amnesty.org/ailib/intcam/femgen/fgm1.htm
World Health Organisation: www.who.int/inf-fs/en/fact241.html
Stop FGM: www.stopfgm.org/stopfgm/jump_page.jsp
UNICEF: www.unicef.org/protection/index_genitalmutilation.html
US State Department report on FGM in Eritrea: www.state.gov/g/wi/rls/rep/crfgm/10097.htm
(0) comments
Amnesty International: www.amnesty.org/ailib/intcam/femgen/fgm1.htm
World Health Organisation: www.who.int/inf-fs/en/fact241.html
Stop FGM: www.stopfgm.org/stopfgm/jump_page.jsp
UNICEF: www.unicef.org/protection/index_genitalmutilation.html
US State Department report on FGM in Eritrea: www.state.gov/g/wi/rls/rep/crfgm/10097.htm
Season of Mists
Ghinda
------
We travel down to Ghinda the next day. The road is covered in mist for most of the route, and there is the occasional sharp intake of breath as a shave becomes a little too close for comfort on the steep hairpins. But we make it.
Ghinda is clouded over. There is no sun visible but the town and the area around it is incredibly green with new growth. It is an enormous contrast to the dusty, arid land we saw when we stopped here in September.
Ghinda Steve has kindly lent us the keys to his house for a couple of days, so we walk along the main street until we find his compound: a large compound bustling with people, including an Indian family. Some of them call out that Steve is not at home then watch with interest as we produce the key and open the door. We dump our stuff then set off back into the town.
Through the town, back in the direction of Asmara and out again the road passes over a wide rocky river bed, so we decide to follow the river into the hills. Kids call out to us as we make our way along the riverbed and start to climb the lefthand tributary. The going is a little rocky but not too bad. Occasionally a child passes, herding donkeys or goats, and stops to stare at us, curious. Eventually we reach a point where the track becomes very narrow, and looks more difficult to negotiate, so we double back and take the righthand fork instead. Along the way, we spot some huge ants -- the biggest I've yet seen -- marching in a very straight line, five ants wide. I follow them and see that they are climbing up the slope on the left side of the valley and then bunching a little way up. Where they bunch the formation breaks and ants clamber over and under each other, stopping to pass on food or chemical instructions. It is fascinating to watch but more fascinating is the noise. There is a constant hiss, accompanied by a mechanical chatter that seems almost part of the communication process. I don't think it is. I think it is just the sound of many relatively large insect bodies pressing and pushing against one another.
Here too, the track begins to narrow until the only sure way forward seems to be a track cut into the valley side. As we climb, the clouds descend, and we start to feel a couple of drops of rain.
At the top, there is a ridge. From just below, we can see nothing beyond the ridge: the mist has become too thick. It looks like the edge of nowhere. Once we get to the edge of the ridge, the mist has descended so much that we can see no more than about twenty yards. It is an eerie feeling to be standing in the mist-shrouded near-silence, just the occasional echoing call coming from far off shepherds. As we make our way back down it starts to rain properly, and the ground becomes treacherous: we slip and slide around but make it down safely in the end.
We spend our time over the next couple of days walking in the countryside and stopping at cafes for food or drinks. The countryside around Ghinda is incredibly green and lush. The growth is new, so the vibrancy of colour is startling. Birds flit through the trees and their cries echo around the valleys. We see many weaver birds, bright yellow bodies with greenish wings and black faces smudged into red. Their nests hang like wicker baubles from the trees. There are also many bulbuls in their smart monochrome livery top with a rakish crest. Many small canaries flit about the trees outside the cafes, showing off their breasts of blue, red or yellow. Walking by the river, we spot a huge nest in one of the trees. I climb a little way up to investigate, but I can't see or hear any activity. As we walk further down the valley, a pelican swoops over and glides off in the direction of the nest, so I guess that solves the mystery. On another walk along the valley towards Massawa, a mysterious brightly coloured bird flies parallel with us for a while. By it's long tail, split and curling slightly, we reckon that it's a paradise flycatcher. Everywhere we go there is a distant whooping, a bit like a swanee whistle, but we never manage to identify its source.
We also walk up to the old train depot. The track is partially overgrown now, and there are hollow shells of rolling stock scattered about. The buildings are derelict and the place has the sad melancholy of failed aspirations.
There is a restaurant in Ghinda that serves the "best injera in Eritrea". I can endorse that: it's deliciously sweet and firm, and the shiro is a perfect texture and flavour.
On the Monday we head down to Massawa.
Staying at the Dahlak Hotel, opposite the cracked egg of Haile Selassie's palace, we are in relative luxury with an en-suite shower and ceiling fans. The electricity is not perfect, as I discover when I accidentally touch an exposed live wire. Ouch.
We spend the first day at Gurgussum beach, where we stayed for our first weekend in Eritrea, all those months ago. The air and sea are cool so we don't stay in for very long. To warm up after swimming, we play frisbee with a pair of young Eritrean girls. They are perhaps about 9 or 10 anbd smile the whole time we're playing. One of them is very bright and soon learns to throw the frisbee fairly well. She even picks up on my game of bluff and is pretty deft at looking one way while she throws in another direction. The other one -- who might be a bit younger -- finds it more difficult to grasp, and the frisbee more difficult to let go. When the games ends, bot little girls come up to me and Jo and very politely shake our hands. Sweet.
Delicious Yemeni-style fish at the Selam in town for dinner, accompanied by a few VSOs we came across in the afternoon. The fish is baked in a tandoori-like oven then seasoned with a dry coating of mild pepper. We mop it up with chapatis as we huddle under the awning in a attempt to escape the pouring rain. A large group of large, noisy Italians is huddling close by, shouting requests for beer at one of their party. When the rain finally eases off, we splash over to a bar for a few beers of our own.
Next day we head off to Green Island, Jo, Senafe Jo, Nicola, Angela and me. It's a fifteen minute boat trip from the hotel, a short swim away from Massawa main island. It's not especially green -- although admittedly much of it is covered in low, scrubby vegetation -- nor is it much of an island, being just a few hundred metres across and about 20 wide. It's nice to have a beach almost to ourselves however, and it feels like a bit of an adventure. Senafe Jo and I decide to go snorkelling. After wading out a long, long way, the coral starts and we get a good look at quite a variety of small fish. I spot many different angel fish and wrasse, Jo spots a green turtle. The water is so couyant that at one point I forget that I'm not SCUBA diving and dive under for a closer look. A lungfull of salt water reminds me that I'm snorkelling.
Back at the shore, Jo has come across a small dead hammerhead shark. It's lying on its back in the shallows with a wide downturned mouth and hollow eyes. It's tail is missing and so are its dorsal fins. Its shape, expression, and white belly make it look like a cartoon ghost. When I find Jo, however, she has passed the shark and is gazing into the water. She saw a large shadow move across the water but got to the edge too late to identify it. Perhaps it was another ghost.
Helen's Concert
---------------
Back in Asmara on the Saturday, we head down towards Bahti Meskerem for a delicious lunch at a Lebanese restaurant. Then we get ready for the evening and Helen's concert.
Helen VSO has organised a concert to raise funds for a project she is initiating. In the summer, a troupe of travelling actors will tour much of the country in horse-drawn caravans. Their purpose will be to teach and promote discussion on the issues around female genital mutilation (FGM). The concert is free and Helen has publicised it around the Asmara ex-pat and business community, but she is nervous that no-one will turn up. No need to worry: it's a packed house. There are even a few stragglers standing around the sides.
The Cinema Asmara, venue for the concert, is actually a theatre. It is very grand, if a little shabby. Stalls and an upper circle settle beneath a fresco of neatly-painted peacocks who gaze down from the ceiling in perfect perspective.
Many VSOs are there to help out and provide moral support. The latter is not needed at all: the concert is fantastic. The National Union of Eritrean Youth and Students (NUEYS) puts on a stunning display of acrobatics; tumbling about each other, stacking chairs and tables to the ceiling and balancing on top, even using one of the girls as a human skipping rope! Helen performs a few songs, one of them a duet with an Eritrean opera singer. There's a display of salsa dancing by a bunch of Cuban doctors, and music from NUEYS. They all get together to sing 'Lean on Me' as a finale.
A bigger success than anyone could have hoped.
Female Genital Mutilation (FGM)
-------------------------------
FGM consists of full or partial removal of, or damage to, female genitalia. It is usually performed on girls before puberty (between the ages of four and twelve). FGM is a widespread practice in Eritrea (one estimate suggests that 94.5% of the female population has undergone mutilation), as well as other countries in Africa. It often leads to disease, psychological distress or sexual dysfunction, and there is a high mortality rate during the operation or during childbirth many years later.
(0) comments
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We travel down to Ghinda the next day. The road is covered in mist for most of the route, and there is the occasional sharp intake of breath as a shave becomes a little too close for comfort on the steep hairpins. But we make it.
Ghinda is clouded over. There is no sun visible but the town and the area around it is incredibly green with new growth. It is an enormous contrast to the dusty, arid land we saw when we stopped here in September.
Ghinda Steve has kindly lent us the keys to his house for a couple of days, so we walk along the main street until we find his compound: a large compound bustling with people, including an Indian family. Some of them call out that Steve is not at home then watch with interest as we produce the key and open the door. We dump our stuff then set off back into the town.
Through the town, back in the direction of Asmara and out again the road passes over a wide rocky river bed, so we decide to follow the river into the hills. Kids call out to us as we make our way along the riverbed and start to climb the lefthand tributary. The going is a little rocky but not too bad. Occasionally a child passes, herding donkeys or goats, and stops to stare at us, curious. Eventually we reach a point where the track becomes very narrow, and looks more difficult to negotiate, so we double back and take the righthand fork instead. Along the way, we spot some huge ants -- the biggest I've yet seen -- marching in a very straight line, five ants wide. I follow them and see that they are climbing up the slope on the left side of the valley and then bunching a little way up. Where they bunch the formation breaks and ants clamber over and under each other, stopping to pass on food or chemical instructions. It is fascinating to watch but more fascinating is the noise. There is a constant hiss, accompanied by a mechanical chatter that seems almost part of the communication process. I don't think it is. I think it is just the sound of many relatively large insect bodies pressing and pushing against one another.
Here too, the track begins to narrow until the only sure way forward seems to be a track cut into the valley side. As we climb, the clouds descend, and we start to feel a couple of drops of rain.
At the top, there is a ridge. From just below, we can see nothing beyond the ridge: the mist has become too thick. It looks like the edge of nowhere. Once we get to the edge of the ridge, the mist has descended so much that we can see no more than about twenty yards. It is an eerie feeling to be standing in the mist-shrouded near-silence, just the occasional echoing call coming from far off shepherds. As we make our way back down it starts to rain properly, and the ground becomes treacherous: we slip and slide around but make it down safely in the end.
We spend our time over the next couple of days walking in the countryside and stopping at cafes for food or drinks. The countryside around Ghinda is incredibly green and lush. The growth is new, so the vibrancy of colour is startling. Birds flit through the trees and their cries echo around the valleys. We see many weaver birds, bright yellow bodies with greenish wings and black faces smudged into red. Their nests hang like wicker baubles from the trees. There are also many bulbuls in their smart monochrome livery top with a rakish crest. Many small canaries flit about the trees outside the cafes, showing off their breasts of blue, red or yellow. Walking by the river, we spot a huge nest in one of the trees. I climb a little way up to investigate, but I can't see or hear any activity. As we walk further down the valley, a pelican swoops over and glides off in the direction of the nest, so I guess that solves the mystery. On another walk along the valley towards Massawa, a mysterious brightly coloured bird flies parallel with us for a while. By it's long tail, split and curling slightly, we reckon that it's a paradise flycatcher. Everywhere we go there is a distant whooping, a bit like a swanee whistle, but we never manage to identify its source.
We also walk up to the old train depot. The track is partially overgrown now, and there are hollow shells of rolling stock scattered about. The buildings are derelict and the place has the sad melancholy of failed aspirations.
There is a restaurant in Ghinda that serves the "best injera in Eritrea". I can endorse that: it's deliciously sweet and firm, and the shiro is a perfect texture and flavour.
On the Monday we head down to Massawa.
Staying at the Dahlak Hotel, opposite the cracked egg of Haile Selassie's palace, we are in relative luxury with an en-suite shower and ceiling fans. The electricity is not perfect, as I discover when I accidentally touch an exposed live wire. Ouch.
We spend the first day at Gurgussum beach, where we stayed for our first weekend in Eritrea, all those months ago. The air and sea are cool so we don't stay in for very long. To warm up after swimming, we play frisbee with a pair of young Eritrean girls. They are perhaps about 9 or 10 anbd smile the whole time we're playing. One of them is very bright and soon learns to throw the frisbee fairly well. She even picks up on my game of bluff and is pretty deft at looking one way while she throws in another direction. The other one -- who might be a bit younger -- finds it more difficult to grasp, and the frisbee more difficult to let go. When the games ends, bot little girls come up to me and Jo and very politely shake our hands. Sweet.
Delicious Yemeni-style fish at the Selam in town for dinner, accompanied by a few VSOs we came across in the afternoon. The fish is baked in a tandoori-like oven then seasoned with a dry coating of mild pepper. We mop it up with chapatis as we huddle under the awning in a attempt to escape the pouring rain. A large group of large, noisy Italians is huddling close by, shouting requests for beer at one of their party. When the rain finally eases off, we splash over to a bar for a few beers of our own.
Next day we head off to Green Island, Jo, Senafe Jo, Nicola, Angela and me. It's a fifteen minute boat trip from the hotel, a short swim away from Massawa main island. It's not especially green -- although admittedly much of it is covered in low, scrubby vegetation -- nor is it much of an island, being just a few hundred metres across and about 20 wide. It's nice to have a beach almost to ourselves however, and it feels like a bit of an adventure. Senafe Jo and I decide to go snorkelling. After wading out a long, long way, the coral starts and we get a good look at quite a variety of small fish. I spot many different angel fish and wrasse, Jo spots a green turtle. The water is so couyant that at one point I forget that I'm not SCUBA diving and dive under for a closer look. A lungfull of salt water reminds me that I'm snorkelling.
Back at the shore, Jo has come across a small dead hammerhead shark. It's lying on its back in the shallows with a wide downturned mouth and hollow eyes. It's tail is missing and so are its dorsal fins. Its shape, expression, and white belly make it look like a cartoon ghost. When I find Jo, however, she has passed the shark and is gazing into the water. She saw a large shadow move across the water but got to the edge too late to identify it. Perhaps it was another ghost.
Helen's Concert
---------------
Back in Asmara on the Saturday, we head down towards Bahti Meskerem for a delicious lunch at a Lebanese restaurant. Then we get ready for the evening and Helen's concert.
Helen VSO has organised a concert to raise funds for a project she is initiating. In the summer, a troupe of travelling actors will tour much of the country in horse-drawn caravans. Their purpose will be to teach and promote discussion on the issues around female genital mutilation (FGM). The concert is free and Helen has publicised it around the Asmara ex-pat and business community, but she is nervous that no-one will turn up. No need to worry: it's a packed house. There are even a few stragglers standing around the sides.
The Cinema Asmara, venue for the concert, is actually a theatre. It is very grand, if a little shabby. Stalls and an upper circle settle beneath a fresco of neatly-painted peacocks who gaze down from the ceiling in perfect perspective.
Many VSOs are there to help out and provide moral support. The latter is not needed at all: the concert is fantastic. The National Union of Eritrean Youth and Students (NUEYS) puts on a stunning display of acrobatics; tumbling about each other, stacking chairs and tables to the ceiling and balancing on top, even using one of the girls as a human skipping rope! Helen performs a few songs, one of them a duet with an Eritrean opera singer. There's a display of salsa dancing by a bunch of Cuban doctors, and music from NUEYS. They all get together to sing 'Lean on Me' as a finale.
A bigger success than anyone could have hoped.
Female Genital Mutilation (FGM)
-------------------------------
FGM consists of full or partial removal of, or damage to, female genitalia. It is usually performed on girls before puberty (between the ages of four and twelve). FGM is a widespread practice in Eritrea (one estimate suggests that 94.5% of the female population has undergone mutilation), as well as other countries in Africa. It often leads to disease, psychological distress or sexual dysfunction, and there is a high mortality rate during the operation or during childbirth many years later.
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Baptism and Beer
Timket (Tuesday 20th January)
-----------------------------
Eritrean Epiphany. "Timket" in Tigrinya. After a weekend in Asmara, I stay an extra couple of days so that I can see some of the Timket celebrations. The celebrations in Asmara are shown on Eri-TV (the state channel) each year, so they are quite famous.
Bahti Meskerem (aka "September 1st Square") is to the east of the city. A row of banks and large office blocks opens out to a big space. On one side is a gravel expanse that is mostly used as a car park, on the other is a stone terrace of stepped seating, much like a stadium stand, with a row of shops underneath. This is where rallies were held in previous times, now it is home to the occasional spectator event: cycle races and traditional holiday festivities. Today it has sporadic rows of children, giggling and calling down to the crowd beneath them. The crowd beneath them is a seething mass of children who buck and sway like a flock of birds or a shoal of fish. They are all armed with plastic bottles or jerry cans, full of water which they throw at each other with glee. The kids on the stand squirt water down on anyone foolish enough to stray beneath them. When I make that mistake they scream with glee as they soak my head. I decide it's best to climb up into the stand myself.
The shoal of kids continues to swim about, chasing the latest hapless victim, then turning tail as the victim gets his revenge backed up by nearby turncoats. Then a car approaches. Bahti Meskerem straddles one of Asmara's prominent streets, so it is no surprise to see a car attempting to pass through. The driver is surprised however, as the shoal realises it has prime prey and rushes with one mind towards him. Hundreds of whooping kids surround the car, pouring water through the hastily closing windows and splashing the windscreen and body. The driver manages to carefully reverse, turn around and head back in the direction he came from, tail between his legs and windscreen wipers on full.
I stay and watch the fun for a while until it seems to calm down and I deem it safe to get back down to the street. Walking behind the "car park", I come across the source of all the water: a small fountain set in a little park. There are gangs of kids filling up bottles from the fountain, and families sitting or strolling around. A pleasant holiday atmosphere. But now the fun has gone on long enough. The crowd back at the car park is being dispersed by soldiers and police armed with long sticks. They thrash indiscriminately at any kids within range and the children scatter. Sometimes they manage to catch one of them. I see three policemen holding down a couple of older children. Their captives protest and are rewarded with kicks, and whacks from one policeman's stick. Meanwhile a small group of adults is arguing with his colleague, and crying out each time the boot or stick is used. I wonder if I should take a photograph of this, but I can't be sure of not being seen by another policeman or soldier, as there are many of them running to and fro now. Instead, I slink back to the bus station, feeling ashamed and angry.
Holidays in the Sun?
--------------------
Wednesday 28th January
There is a plan. A carefully-hatched plan that Jo and I have cooked up to go to Assab, the southern-most town in Eritrea, very near to the borders with Djibouti and Ethiopia. We will travel down to Massawa and then south to Assab by bus. It takes two days so the passengers will sleep outside a pension in a small town on the way. The scenery is apparently breathtaking: desert and volcanic craters, sea and ostriches. Then we will get on a boat at Assab which will take us back to Massawa in a further two days, to chill out before returning to Asmara. That is the plan.
There is a catch. Jo, Nicola and I arrive at the Ministry of Tourism, clutching our letters of permission from our respective zoba offices. We almost get our permits when the woman realises that we are residents, not tourists. "I'm sorry," she says, "I can't process these. You have to get the permits from the Ministry of Education head office." So that is where we go, still clutching our permits. Once at the Ministry offices, we are told that they will happily process our application for permission to travel, and that we should come back in ten days. Ten days! We wanted to go to Assab tomorrow! No amount of pleading will get us our way, so we go on our way. So ... we have had to wait until this day to get to Asmara to present our letters of permission to go to Assab during our ten day break from school, but the procedure for providing the permit to travel takes ten days. That is the catch.
As a last ditch, we decide to get the bus anyway and see how far we can get with the letters we have. But when we get to the bus station we are told that the Assab bus for the next day is full. The next bus is a couple of days later, too late to fit our carefully-hatched plan.
So there is another plan. Nicola hooks up with another couple of VSOs and goes her own way. Jo and I decide we will go to Massawa, stopping off for a couple of days in Ghinda. This gives us time to spend a day in Jo's village before we leave, and celebrate Nigdet -- the local saint's day -- with them.
Nigdet
------
We get to Shimangus Lalai early that afternoon. There are several people climbing the hill with us, and a few four-wheel-drives parked at the top when we get there. As we pass the coptic church, we walk through a small crowd and can see that there is a much bigger crowd of people crammed into the churchyard. We can hear some chanting coming from the church, but can't get close enough to see anything.
In the compound people are bustling about everywhere. Hadas greets us with glee. She's so happy that we sould make it for the ceremony / party. She guides us into the house next door to Jo's, usually unoccupied but today full of women making coffee and food. Rubka is sitting in the room kneading a white dough that Jo explains is "Helbet": a paste made from mashed beans that Rubka will knead and whip until it is light and airy. When we are offered some, it is delicious: a whipped mousse of subtle, creamy flavour that combines perfectly with the heat of the silsi (chilli sauce) and the sour injera used to mop it up.
We are offered coffee, then sewa flavoured with honey. Delicious. And then the priests come in.
They come into the adjoining room from outside. They are swathed entirely in white, except for the occasional blue velvet cape that is soon discarded. White shawls, white trousers, and white hats like stiff turbans topping off their owners like the cap of a box of pills. Each of them carries a stick, some of them carry fresh branches trailing fern-like leaves. They sit around in a couple of circles, about a dozen priests in all. Perhaps that number is significant, a reference to the loyal disciples.
There are an interesting lot, these priests. There is a very old-looking guy with an impressive bushy grey beard , a wrinkled face, and squinting eyes. There is one who peers about him and stumbles into his seat, who may be blind. There is a jolly priest with a relatively young face who beams his smile around the room, particularly at me and Jo. And there is one who is completely bald, with a lean, skull-like face that breaks into a leering grin under two wide, staring eyes. He reminds me of the bald guy from the Flying Pickets.
So they sit and are offered food and coffee by the women in the other room. Men from the village file into the room and sit around the walls, talking and eating as well. Before eating, one of the priests says a prayer.
Once the food is consumed, they start to pray. They stand in a circle and each takes his turn to say a prayer. There is silence in both rooms as each has his moment. Then they start to chant. It is a beautiful sound: twelve men harmonising extremely well, although there is the inevitable flat voice among them. Those of us who had previously been shuffling our feet a little during the drawn-out prayers are now transfixed as we listen to the lovely unaccompanied singing.
Now the priests arrange thmselves into opposing lines and start to dance as they sing. Those with leafy branches swing them in time to the song as they bend their backs and weave their way with a swagger amongst each other. At certain points, one priest will take up the main melody and the circle will re-form to give him his stage, then it will break into lines again and the weaving and swaggering resume.
Meanwhile sewa and araki is being passed among the onlookers. As soon as we turn our backs our sewa cups are refilled, so Jo and I are getting gently pissed. As is the guy handing out the araki. I notice that each time he pours a few glasses for the tray, he downs a swift one himself. It takes a few trays to get around the whole crowd so he is having three or four arakis to each round. Later on in the afternoon he is so drunk that he ends up spilling much of the contents of the sewa bucket over the floor while attempting to fill some cups.
The priests have finished their dancing and chanting and are spread around the room now, chatting and downing booze. All this time the women have been waiting on the men and me and Jo. They have been constantly cooking, serving coffee or chai, or cleaning up, with just occasional breaks to listen to the prayers. With most of the work now done, they can finally relax a little and have some food themselves. It seems the only work a man is willing to do is to serve the drinks, possibly because of the attendant perks. The only other man working is Hailu. He is the little wizened old guy who sleeps outside Jo's house because his home is full of Food Aid grain. He's dressed in a snappy black suit that's slightly too big for him but makes an impressive change from his usual scruffy coat and bobble hat. His job is mainly to show people to their seats. A curious kind of maitre d' is he.
When we get chatting to a friendly villager -- who turns out to be the local evangelist vicar -- we learn that this house belongs to the village orthodox priest and his wife, so he is playing host to the ceremony / party and a bunch of his colleagues from Asmara and environs. It seems the life of a coptic priest is a good one: travel from village to village to celebrate the various saints' days, eat, drink and dance, then drink some more. There is a bit of piety, and a lot of gaiety. I think they've got the balance right.
At the end of the afternoon the priests start to leave one by one. Each goes round the whole room, offering a wooden cross to be kissed. The one from the flying pickets makes a beeline for me, grinning his mad grin, eyes nearly popping out. I'm amazed when, instead of offering me a cross to kiss, he grabs my hand and gives me the over-under matey shake. He says something in Tigrinya, which may or may not be along the lines of "stay cool bro' ", then leaves to rejoin his posse.
We are still plagued by the never-ending sewa so we decide we'd better leave because we intend to go to Ghinda in the morning. So we take our cups over to Hadas' house for a short coffee then make our escape proper.
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Eritrean Epiphany. "Timket" in Tigrinya. After a weekend in Asmara, I stay an extra couple of days so that I can see some of the Timket celebrations. The celebrations in Asmara are shown on Eri-TV (the state channel) each year, so they are quite famous.
Bahti Meskerem (aka "September 1st Square") is to the east of the city. A row of banks and large office blocks opens out to a big space. On one side is a gravel expanse that is mostly used as a car park, on the other is a stone terrace of stepped seating, much like a stadium stand, with a row of shops underneath. This is where rallies were held in previous times, now it is home to the occasional spectator event: cycle races and traditional holiday festivities. Today it has sporadic rows of children, giggling and calling down to the crowd beneath them. The crowd beneath them is a seething mass of children who buck and sway like a flock of birds or a shoal of fish. They are all armed with plastic bottles or jerry cans, full of water which they throw at each other with glee. The kids on the stand squirt water down on anyone foolish enough to stray beneath them. When I make that mistake they scream with glee as they soak my head. I decide it's best to climb up into the stand myself.
The shoal of kids continues to swim about, chasing the latest hapless victim, then turning tail as the victim gets his revenge backed up by nearby turncoats. Then a car approaches. Bahti Meskerem straddles one of Asmara's prominent streets, so it is no surprise to see a car attempting to pass through. The driver is surprised however, as the shoal realises it has prime prey and rushes with one mind towards him. Hundreds of whooping kids surround the car, pouring water through the hastily closing windows and splashing the windscreen and body. The driver manages to carefully reverse, turn around and head back in the direction he came from, tail between his legs and windscreen wipers on full.
I stay and watch the fun for a while until it seems to calm down and I deem it safe to get back down to the street. Walking behind the "car park", I come across the source of all the water: a small fountain set in a little park. There are gangs of kids filling up bottles from the fountain, and families sitting or strolling around. A pleasant holiday atmosphere. But now the fun has gone on long enough. The crowd back at the car park is being dispersed by soldiers and police armed with long sticks. They thrash indiscriminately at any kids within range and the children scatter. Sometimes they manage to catch one of them. I see three policemen holding down a couple of older children. Their captives protest and are rewarded with kicks, and whacks from one policeman's stick. Meanwhile a small group of adults is arguing with his colleague, and crying out each time the boot or stick is used. I wonder if I should take a photograph of this, but I can't be sure of not being seen by another policeman or soldier, as there are many of them running to and fro now. Instead, I slink back to the bus station, feeling ashamed and angry.
Holidays in the Sun?
--------------------
Wednesday 28th January
There is a plan. A carefully-hatched plan that Jo and I have cooked up to go to Assab, the southern-most town in Eritrea, very near to the borders with Djibouti and Ethiopia. We will travel down to Massawa and then south to Assab by bus. It takes two days so the passengers will sleep outside a pension in a small town on the way. The scenery is apparently breathtaking: desert and volcanic craters, sea and ostriches. Then we will get on a boat at Assab which will take us back to Massawa in a further two days, to chill out before returning to Asmara. That is the plan.
There is a catch. Jo, Nicola and I arrive at the Ministry of Tourism, clutching our letters of permission from our respective zoba offices. We almost get our permits when the woman realises that we are residents, not tourists. "I'm sorry," she says, "I can't process these. You have to get the permits from the Ministry of Education head office." So that is where we go, still clutching our permits. Once at the Ministry offices, we are told that they will happily process our application for permission to travel, and that we should come back in ten days. Ten days! We wanted to go to Assab tomorrow! No amount of pleading will get us our way, so we go on our way. So ... we have had to wait until this day to get to Asmara to present our letters of permission to go to Assab during our ten day break from school, but the procedure for providing the permit to travel takes ten days. That is the catch.
As a last ditch, we decide to get the bus anyway and see how far we can get with the letters we have. But when we get to the bus station we are told that the Assab bus for the next day is full. The next bus is a couple of days later, too late to fit our carefully-hatched plan.
So there is another plan. Nicola hooks up with another couple of VSOs and goes her own way. Jo and I decide we will go to Massawa, stopping off for a couple of days in Ghinda. This gives us time to spend a day in Jo's village before we leave, and celebrate Nigdet -- the local saint's day -- with them.
Nigdet
------
We get to Shimangus Lalai early that afternoon. There are several people climbing the hill with us, and a few four-wheel-drives parked at the top when we get there. As we pass the coptic church, we walk through a small crowd and can see that there is a much bigger crowd of people crammed into the churchyard. We can hear some chanting coming from the church, but can't get close enough to see anything.
In the compound people are bustling about everywhere. Hadas greets us with glee. She's so happy that we sould make it for the ceremony / party. She guides us into the house next door to Jo's, usually unoccupied but today full of women making coffee and food. Rubka is sitting in the room kneading a white dough that Jo explains is "Helbet": a paste made from mashed beans that Rubka will knead and whip until it is light and airy. When we are offered some, it is delicious: a whipped mousse of subtle, creamy flavour that combines perfectly with the heat of the silsi (chilli sauce) and the sour injera used to mop it up.
We are offered coffee, then sewa flavoured with honey. Delicious. And then the priests come in.
They come into the adjoining room from outside. They are swathed entirely in white, except for the occasional blue velvet cape that is soon discarded. White shawls, white trousers, and white hats like stiff turbans topping off their owners like the cap of a box of pills. Each of them carries a stick, some of them carry fresh branches trailing fern-like leaves. They sit around in a couple of circles, about a dozen priests in all. Perhaps that number is significant, a reference to the loyal disciples.
There are an interesting lot, these priests. There is a very old-looking guy with an impressive bushy grey beard , a wrinkled face, and squinting eyes. There is one who peers about him and stumbles into his seat, who may be blind. There is a jolly priest with a relatively young face who beams his smile around the room, particularly at me and Jo. And there is one who is completely bald, with a lean, skull-like face that breaks into a leering grin under two wide, staring eyes. He reminds me of the bald guy from the Flying Pickets.
So they sit and are offered food and coffee by the women in the other room. Men from the village file into the room and sit around the walls, talking and eating as well. Before eating, one of the priests says a prayer.
Once the food is consumed, they start to pray. They stand in a circle and each takes his turn to say a prayer. There is silence in both rooms as each has his moment. Then they start to chant. It is a beautiful sound: twelve men harmonising extremely well, although there is the inevitable flat voice among them. Those of us who had previously been shuffling our feet a little during the drawn-out prayers are now transfixed as we listen to the lovely unaccompanied singing.
Now the priests arrange thmselves into opposing lines and start to dance as they sing. Those with leafy branches swing them in time to the song as they bend their backs and weave their way with a swagger amongst each other. At certain points, one priest will take up the main melody and the circle will re-form to give him his stage, then it will break into lines again and the weaving and swaggering resume.
Meanwhile sewa and araki is being passed among the onlookers. As soon as we turn our backs our sewa cups are refilled, so Jo and I are getting gently pissed. As is the guy handing out the araki. I notice that each time he pours a few glasses for the tray, he downs a swift one himself. It takes a few trays to get around the whole crowd so he is having three or four arakis to each round. Later on in the afternoon he is so drunk that he ends up spilling much of the contents of the sewa bucket over the floor while attempting to fill some cups.
The priests have finished their dancing and chanting and are spread around the room now, chatting and downing booze. All this time the women have been waiting on the men and me and Jo. They have been constantly cooking, serving coffee or chai, or cleaning up, with just occasional breaks to listen to the prayers. With most of the work now done, they can finally relax a little and have some food themselves. It seems the only work a man is willing to do is to serve the drinks, possibly because of the attendant perks. The only other man working is Hailu. He is the little wizened old guy who sleeps outside Jo's house because his home is full of Food Aid grain. He's dressed in a snappy black suit that's slightly too big for him but makes an impressive change from his usual scruffy coat and bobble hat. His job is mainly to show people to their seats. A curious kind of maitre d' is he.
When we get chatting to a friendly villager -- who turns out to be the local evangelist vicar -- we learn that this house belongs to the village orthodox priest and his wife, so he is playing host to the ceremony / party and a bunch of his colleagues from Asmara and environs. It seems the life of a coptic priest is a good one: travel from village to village to celebrate the various saints' days, eat, drink and dance, then drink some more. There is a bit of piety, and a lot of gaiety. I think they've got the balance right.
At the end of the afternoon the priests start to leave one by one. Each goes round the whole room, offering a wooden cross to be kissed. The one from the flying pickets makes a beeline for me, grinning his mad grin, eyes nearly popping out. I'm amazed when, instead of offering me a cross to kiss, he grabs my hand and gives me the over-under matey shake. He says something in Tigrinya, which may or may not be along the lines of "stay cool bro' ", then leaves to rejoin his posse.
We are still plagued by the never-ending sewa so we decide we'd better leave because we intend to go to Ghinda in the morning. So we take our cups over to Hadas' house for a short coffee then make our escape proper.
